


rebel rebel

by BasicBathsheba



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Agatha Wellbelove's perfectly punk jacket, Baz pov, Baz raised by Fiona AU, Dev and Niall actually get to be real boys, Exorcism, Fiona is the best aunt, Gay Panic, M/M, Punk Ass Pitch AU, Really supportive male friendships, Recreational Drug Use, Selkies, Sexual Tension, Slow slow slow burn, TW: the smiths, Welsh words, baz and Agatha are best friends, baz had a much better childhood, becoming vampire, brief Baz/other male character, bunce and baz friendship, first crushes, gratuitous bowie references, intense pranking, leather jacket, punk is very emotional, real slowburn DeNiall, shitty soulmate AU, showing your love through ipods, starts in first year, washing each other’s hair because why not let’s get all tropes in there, watford pranks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-06-18 12:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 183,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15485421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba
Summary: Baz Pitch loves, in no particular order; David Bowie, punk music, the feel of old vinyl, the smell of coffee (but not the taste), classic books, magic, David Byrne, the fact that he was raised by his aunt Fiona, and maybe, sometimes, Simon Snow.





	1. Chapter 1




	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! this fic has been a long-running labour of love, and is going to end up being a bit of a beast. Unlike my previous fics, there is not going to be a weekly update, because each chapter is pretty long. I'll be cranking them out as quickly as I can!
> 
> This fic is very music heavy! You can check out the 'rebel rebel' playlist on Spotify here: https://spoti.fi/2vgJ2TT
> 
> A huge thank you to @great-merlins-beard, who was so instrumental to this fics creation. thank you for the beta reading and being my sounding board. and thank you for creating the art that inspired it! check it out here --> https://bit.ly/2mTsKfP
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs and albums mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> chapter title:  
> All The Young Dudes, David Bowie  
> https://spoti.fi/2LJC043

“Do you have your records?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the spell again?”

I sigh. I’ve known this spell since I was a child, even if I’ve technically never been allowed to cast it legally. Magic isn’t permitted until you start Watford, but Fiona and I both know that hasn’t stopped us.

“ ** _Two turntables and a microphone_** ,” I say, trying to sound as world weary as an eleven-year old can. I guess I don’t succeed, because Fiona barely looks at me.

“Do you have your socks?”

I’m offended by the very idea of forgetting socks.

“Yes,” I whine.

“Trousers?”

“Yes.”

“Jacket?”

“Fiona, I’m not wearing that jacket.”

Fiona pauses in the middle of putting my bags into the back of her car and turns to stare at me. She seems actually surprised, and a little worried. Her right eyebrow, the one with the piercing, goes up.

“Why? You love it.”

I squirm a bit under her gaze. How do I explain it to her? The jacket is perfectly fine for wearing at home in London. Things like denim jackets and patches are fine in that regard, but I’m about to go to Watford, and I’m a Pitch. There are expectations. I’ll be representing my mother. A denim jacket with the Velvet Underground banana on it is not appropriate.

“This is Watford. I have to look nice.”

“This isn’t nice?”

There’s a patch reading MEAT IS MURDER on it, which Fiona and I both find hysterical, considering...you know.

“It’s not Watford,” I say delicately. Fiona stares down at me, not blinking, and I try not to squirm. I hate that look. I’ve gotten it my whole life. It’s the _“you’re a drama queen, Basilton”_ look.

“How about I pack it just in case,” she says finally, and I have to keep from sighing. “Did you take the Bowie poster?”

This, at least, I can consent to.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Are we missing anything?”

“My bong and supplies for Molotov cocktails,” I answer, rolling my eyes. I spent the summer discovering sarcasm, and I’ve found I’m rather good at it. Fiona hates it. She’s started calling me a “little shit” as a result.

“No, that’s for your third year,” she answers, pushing her dark hair out of her face and grinning wickedly at me. “And how do you know what a bong is?”

I give her my best withering look. She knows how.

“Looks like you’re set,” she says quickly, apparently deciding to not spend time reflecting on her parenting decisions. She shuts the hatch on the boot and turns to smile at me with a terrifying grin. “Now. What’s the one thing to remember?”

I know this answer. It’s been drilled into me for weeks.

“If I meet the Chosen One, kick his ass.”

“That’s my boy,” she says, mussing at my hair. I slap her hand away. I spent _forever_ getting it perfectly slicked, just like in the Bowie poster. “Alright, boyo, climb upfront and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

 

*****

 

We listen to _Electric Warrior_ all the way to Watford, even though T. Rex isn’t what I would have picked for the trip. But Fiona likes them, and I think she’s actually a bit nervous about me starting school, so I don’t complain. Much. Also, there’s something a bit cinematic about speeding down the highway toward my future to _Bang A Gong._ I even sing along.

By the time we pull onto the long drive toward the gates, though, I’m silent.

I haven’t been here since I was five. I thought I would remember it. I was positive that the gates would feel like coming home, and the castle rising in the distance would jar loose some memory, but it’s all blank. I’m a bit glad, actually. I don’t remember anything from the attack, and I think it might be better that way.

“In my sixth year we charmed the gates to sing _God Save the Queen_ when your mum came near,” Fiona says, breaking the silence of the car. “It drove her absolutely mental.”

I’ve heard this story before. I’ve heard all her stories about mum. They’re her favourite ones. I don’t mind the repeats though.

“Did you pack the mobile?” she asks suddenly, turning to me. I’m too busy straining my neck out the window, trying to see the pitch, but I nod. Fiona was extremely insistent I have a mobile with me, even though first years aren’t allowed to have them, and rumour has it the Mage is getting ready to ban them all together. That’s probably why she was so determined; if the Mage hates something, Fiona loves it.

“Good,” she says, drumming her fingers along to _Rip It Off_. (I hate this song. It’s the weakest on the album.) “As soon as you pull off your first prank, I better be the first one you call. I want full details, hear me?”

I sigh.

“Fi, I’m not doing pranks,” I tell her. I try to sound imperious and adult. “I’m a Pitch.”

Her eyes flick over to me for a moment, and she bites her lip.

“Yes you are,” she says, and I think she sounds a bit sad. “To the core.”

 

*****

 

There are parents and siblings milling around and crying, and I can see my cousin Dev through the crowd, nodding seriously as my uncle gives him what looks like a stern talking to. There are a handful of other kids I recognise, all Old Family types, and everyone is weeping and clutching at each other. Fiona and I are sat on the hood of her ‘67 MG drinking Vimto and watching the circus from behind our matching Wayfarers.

“Call me and then call your dad when you get your roommate, alright?” she says, elbowing me. I nod, even though I know I’m not going to call dad. He can find out from Fiona, or during our customary five minute birthday phone call in three weeks.

Fiona takes the Vimto from me and takes a long sip, and a few strands of white hair fall into her face. I love her white streak. It makes her look so different, like the Bride of Frankenstein.

“I want updates if there’s any news on the Twilight front as well,” she says. I elbow her in the gut and turn away. I hate that she does this. She used to call it my “Bela Lugosi problem” but she found out that _Twilight_ references bug me more. I know it’s her way of being natural and chill about the fact that I’m going to start needing to chow down on some virgins soon, but I wish she could be less obnoxious about it.

“Listen,” she says, putting down the Vimto and turning to me. She rests her elbows on the knees of her black jeans and sighs. “David Bowie is a serious bloke, wouldn’t you say?”

I nod. I can’t think of anyone more serious than Bowie. He treats music like a religion. Not sure why we’re talking about him, though.

“But he still has fun, right?” Fiona asks. I side eye her. I don’t know what she’s getting at. She elbows me and grins. “Come on! Ziggy Stardust is fun, right?”

“There’s more to him than Ziggy Stardust,” I say primly, because really, I expected more from Fiona. People narrow him down to one album, when his body of work is so much more varied.

She sighs and takes off her glasses.

“What I’m trying to say is that I want you to have fun, kiddo. You’re a Pitch, and you always will be. There are responsibilities waiting for you down the road. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. Look at me,” she says tapping her nose. The small stud on the left side of her nose gleams. “I’m a Pitch, and I had _loads_ of fun at Watford.” I blink at her, and she sighs again. “You’re a good kid, Basil. A _fun_ kid. There’s a war coming, and you’re going to be on the front line. You’ve got a lot of nasty shit waiting for you. But it’s okay to have fun first.”

We’re silent for a long moment and then she says, quietly, “I wish your mum had taken time to have more fun.”

That hits me in the gut more than anything else could have, and I want to punch Fiona, because she always knows how to get to me. I don’t say anything though. I just stare stonily forward, my eyes latching onto a family with at least six children who are squabbling loudly on the lawn.

“I’ll try,” I say finally. Because she’s right. Bowie did have fun.

“Atta boy.” She ruffles my hair again, then pulls me into a side-hug. “You’re gonna rule this place, just like she did. Now go on, go find the poor sod whose got to live with you for the next eight years.”

I hop off the car and brush off my trousers, and when I turn back to her, she’s holding out my denim jacket. I stare at it for a long, long moment, and consider briefly lighting it on fire. But instead I reach out and take it.

“There you go. Don’t get soft on me now, boyo,” she says. I pull the jacket on, throw her two fingers, then wade through the crowd to find Dev, her low-pitched cackling following me.

 

****

 

The lawn looks like some kind of pagan ritual is about to take place. I’m fairly sure I’ve seen this scene on the cover of one of Fiona’s albums. All that’s missing is for the Mage to break out a ram’s head and start playing Led Zeppelin.

“This looks like a Led Zeppelin album,” mutters a chubby girl standing next to me, and I smile.

“All that’s missing is a ram’s head,” I mutter back. Beside me, Dev looks lost, but the chubby girl grins. She's Indian, but has bright red hair, which is extremely punk.

“Bunce,” she says, holding out her hand. I inspect it, and choose not to shake. I’ve heard of her family. Old lot, respected, not much power between them, because they keep cranking out kids. Fiona talks about them sometimes.

_“Why would you want that many kids? I don’t want the one I’ve got.”_

“Pitch,” I answer. Bunce looks me in the eye, then looks at my jacket, then squints.

“Weird,” she says, more to herself, as she turns back to the fire that’s raging in the middle of the lawn, where the Mage is putting the Crucible into the flames. He’s dressed ridiculously, even by my standards, and I like The Cure.

“Check out bloody Robin Hood,” I say, loud enough for the people around me to hear. It’s not an original thought; Fiona has said it loads of times, but I want to quickly establish myself as an anti-Mage rebel. I don’t think she’d mind me stealing her joke.

Beside me, Dev snorts, while the boy on his other side—a tall, weedy looking redhead whose name I just learned is Niall Kelly (Irish. I wonder if he knows The Pogues?)—stares at me with wide eyes. He’s not from one of the Old Families, and I’ve never met a Kelly before, so he might be one of The Mage’s reform students. On my other side, I see Bunce try to force down a smile.

Bunce finds the Mage ridiculous. Noted.

The magic kicks in slowly, like an uncomfortable pressure near my navel, similar to having to piss. I hold out against it until I see the rest of the first years starting to move. To my left, Dev and Niall are already shaking hands, and to my right, the Bunce girl is dragging her feet toward a girl that I’m fairly sure might actually be a pixie. I watch her for a moment, curious. I had kind of thought I would be the only creature here.

But pixies aren’t dark creatures like me. They’re just pests.

Finally the pull is too much, so I put my hands in my pockets and walk as casually as I can, trying to imitate the way Lou Reed slouches across a stage, all cool and collected. Until I realise who I’m being dragged towards.

Bronze hair turned gold in the firelight. A small, thin boy with a face covered in freckles. His clothes hanging off him like a tent. The saddest looking boy I’ve ever seen.

The Chosen One.

I saw him earlier today for the first time, trailing behind the Mage, his eyes huge, nearly tripping over himself in his attempt to look everywhere at once. Kids and families have been talking about him all day; about the magical bomb he set off last month. It reverberated through all the magical channels. Fiona was driving and felt so nauseated she had to pull over. Even I felt it, a weird, crackling sensation just on the edge of my vision, like it was something I should be able to _see_ if I tried hard enough.

No one really knows if he’s the real deal. No one knows where he came from. Everyone’s been warning their kids to stay away from him.

And he’s my roommate.

“Snow,” I say. He looks up at me and wiggles his hand and shifts from side to side like he has to pee. I get it; the feeling is kind of awful. But a lifetime spent with Fiona and her “no pee breaks on road trips” rule has made me extremely patient with uncomfortable situations.

“Yeah,” he says. “Here.” He waves his hand again. His accent is thick and broad, and he drops his ‘h’s. Liverpudlian? No. Manchester.

“The Mage’s Heir,” I say. I’m still not shaking his hand. He squints at me and shrugs, then shoves his hand forward again. My whole body feels like it’s going to revolt, so I shake it, quickly, then drop it the second my gut stops screaming.

This is not the way Watford was meant to go.

 

****

 

I smooth a wrinkle over Bowie’s eye and try my hardest to not pay attention to Snow, sitting silently on his bed, watching me put up posters.

Snow doesn’t speak. I know he _can_ , but he just _doesn’t_. He followed me to our assigned room silently, trailing a few steps behind. I had no idea where I was going but Dev did, luckily, so I was able to look like I knew exactly where Mummers House is.

The room is great, actually. It’s my dad’s old room, the one he shared with his roommate. It’s at the top of Mummer’s house and has an attached bathroom, which I was not expecting. Dev and Niall are on the ground floor, and have to use the community showers. I was extremely smug about this.

And it’s spacious, too. Not a lot of room between the beds, as they’re both situated under the huge bay window, but on the far side of the room there’s plenty of space for our desks, so I won’t have to stare at Snow while I do my work.

He might stare at me, though.

That’s all he does. He just watches, his eyes huge. I get that this is new for him, but it’s new for the rest of us as well, and at least _we’re_ all trying to pretend that we’re not scared shitless, instead of sitting there, incapable of speech.

I’m glad, though. This will make it easier to get power over The Chosen One immediately. Not that I believe he actually _is_ chosen. He looks like a street kid, and not in a cool way.

“Rules,” I say, finally turning to look at him. He stares up, his mouth hanging open a bit. Is he an idiot? “Don’t come on my side of the room. Do not touch my things. Do not look at the record player.” He glances at the record player, which I’ve set up on my bookshelf, my stacks of records underneath it. “And stay out of my way.”

He turns back to stare at me, and there’s finally _some_ emotion there. A hard glint, maybe, as he works his jaw. For a wild moment I think he’s going to haul off and punch me. I’ve never been punched before.

Fighting is properly punk, though. And I’m a fast learner. I’m sure I’d work it out.

But then the glint is gone, and he just nods.

I turn my back to him and put on Soft Cell’s _Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret_ and keep unpacking. It’s not the best album, but it makes me think of Fiona. Snow doesn't unpack. He just sits on his bed and watches me. Fiona said the Mage pulled him out of a care home. Maybe he doesn’t own anything to unpack.

My books are all put away when there’s a knock on the door. Snow almost jumps out of his skin at the noise, as Dev and Niall walk in. What is wrong with this kid?

Dev looks around the room and nods appreciatively.

“You two lucked out,” he says. I gesture toward the window and nod.

“The window opens out. I won’t have to go outside to smoke.”

All three boys turn to stare at me.

“You smoke?” Niall says. There’s a note of awe in his tone.

“When the mood strikes me,” I say. I’m lying. I don’t smoke. Fiona would kill me. But I plan to start when I’m older. It’s not like it’s going to hurt me or anything.

For the first time, Niall seems to notice that Snow is in the room, and he grins at him, a wide, stretched thing that shows off dimples.

“Hiya, Snow, right? I’m Niall Kelly. This is Devlin Grimm.”

Snow just stares at him. His eyes flick between me and the other boys, and then he waves, quickly, but doesn’t say a word. Dev throws me a questioning glance, and I shake my head, trying to convey that I’ve got no clue what’s wrong with him.

“What are you listening to?” Dev asks, scrunching his nose as he starts to go through my record collection. I forgot that Dev is a nosey git. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, since Fiona and I aren’t Grimms and don’t go to Grimm functions.

Well, I guess I’m a Grimm. But I gave up that name when Malcolm gave me up.

“Music,” I snap, in a surge of annoyance. Dev wrinkles his nose again.

“What is it though? I don’t know it.”

Crowley, he sounds like such a plummy aristocrat when he talks, drawing out his vowels. I may not slur like Snow or drop my ‘t’s like Niall, but I’m glad I don’t sound as full of myself as my cousin.

“It’s Soft Cell,” I tell him. His face looks blank. “Well? What kind of music do you like then?”

This is my default question, when meeting new people. It helps me sort and rank them accordingly.

Dev shrugs.

“I like Dizzee Rascal. He’s quite good. And Chipmunk.”

I’ve a lot of work to do here.

I glance at Niall, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“You ever heard of Biffy Clyro? I like them. And Muse.”

I smile at Niall. I’ve no idea who his family is, but his music taste isn’t abominable.

“What about you, Snow?” Niall asks. It strikes me suddenly that he might actually be a kind person. I’m not sure if I’ve ever met one of those before. “What do you listen to?”

Snow practically shrinks under the weight of our eyes. I know he’s going to give some awful answer, but there’s a chance that he’ll surprise us. Maybe he likes Queen.

Instead he just shrugs, and doesn’t say anything.

“Alright then, not a music fan, I suppose,” Niall says with a smile, then turns back to us. “You unpacked yet, Baz?”

They help me unpack the rest of my things quickly, and I discover that once Niall starts talking, he doesn’t stop. Dev’s going a mile a minute too, telling me about the Grimm family reunion I didn’t go to this summer, and asking about Fiona. She’s always thought he’s had a bit of a crush on her, and I’m starting to think she may be right, which is actually just….really gross.

“Gran charmed my mobile, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone—” Niall is saying, when there’s a noise from the corner. We turn to see Snow, staring, his eyes wide.

“What was that?” Niall asks, and Snow’s eyes dart from side to side.

“Can you…” he starts. “Can you do magic?”

The silence is deafening. Dev stares at me, alarmed, and I know what he’s thinking: _this_ is the saviour of magic? Niall’s face doesn’t move, and he laughs awkwardly.

“Yeah, mate. We can,” he says, stilted. “Can’t you?”

Snow looks around the room again, as though he’s checking for something, and he scoots toward the edge of the bed, like he’s about to tell us a secret.

“Last month I—”

There’s a knock on the door and then it opens without permission, and standing in the doorway is Robin Hood, man in bloody tights. The second the Mage enters, Snow’s head snaps up.

“Simon, a word?” he says, but Snow is already sliding off the bed and hurrying toward him like a dog.

“Boys,” the Mage says, nodding at us. We nod back like men, and then the door closes, and the Mage and his heir are gone.

“He’s weird,” Dev finally says, and Niall and I both exhale.

“Merlin, that’s putting it lightly,” Niall says. “My gran told me to be nice to him because we didn’t know how this was going to shake out. But Crowley, Baz, I don’t envy you being his roommate. What are the odds.”

“Pretty good, I think,” Dev says, inspecting a record. He sees Niall’s confused face and shrugs. “I mean, Baz is a _Pitch_. The last Pitch. And Snow is the Mage’s Heir. They’re like, destined to be enemies, don’t you think?”

“Destined to be enemies?” Niall snorts. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Not really,” Dev says. His tone is cutting. He sounds like my father. I inch a bit closer to the window. “The Mage has been suppressing the Old Families for the past six years, and pushing his reforms through. Now that he’s supposedly found the Chosen One, he’ll be more powerful than ever. Baz is our best chance at taking back Watford and the Coven someday.”

“Oh,” Niall says. “That sucks.”

I’d agree with him, or say something smart and witty, or try to prove that I deserve the responsibility put on me, but I’m too distracted by one thing.

Simon Snow, the Chosen One, the saviour of the World of Mages, he who will deliver us from the Humdrum, doesn’t know about magic.

Who the fuck is this kid?

 

****

 

The first time Snow punches me is on my birthday.

It’s kind of awesome.

We’re three weeks into the school year and it’s become extremely clear that Simon Snow is a wreck. The kid can’t do magic. He holds his wand wrong. And he doesn’t speak.

How can you do magic if you don’t speak? He doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t speak in class, and mumbles along to the class work. I swear to Morgana the first time I heard him read out loud I actually thought he was illiterate.

Considering his background, there’s a good chance he actually might be.

We’ve been ignoring each other completely when we’re in the room. Or at least, I’ve been ignoring him, and he isn’t trying to do anything about it. Niall still says hi to him all the time, but Snow barely smiles back. When it’s just us, I put on my music and tune out his existence.

I don’t think he likes the music. Or maybe he just doesn’t know it? He frowns and huffs like I’m annoying him, but really, I’m doing him a favour. I’m giving him a musical education while also helping him learn source material for spells. He should be thanking me.

 _Suffragette City_ really seems to bother him, which is great news, as it’s one of my favourites.

He’s not in the room that much, though, all things considered. He’s always off trailing behind the Mage somewhere. So that’s why I don’t hesitate to pull out my illegal mobile while sitting on the window seat, and prepare to call Malcolm. He answers after three rings, like always.

“Happy birthday, Basilton,” he says. He never sounds annoyed or unhappy to talk to me. He just seems tired all the time. “What are you doing today?”

I’m not doing much of anything, to be honest. But I tell him about my plans to go play football with Dev and Niall later. We’re all going to start training to try to make the school team next year.

“Is your roommate going?”

My stomach trips. Of course he knows already.

“No,” I say. He hums a bit.

“Keep an eye on him, Basilton. You might learn something that could be of use to the family.”

I bite down on my cheek and stare ahead at the wall. It all comes down to the family. The Families. Family duty, family honour. The only thing they don’t care about is actually taking care of family.

The door slams into the wall suddenly as Snow bursts into the room looking crazed, his hair sticking up and the awful, sickly sweet smell of wood smoke sticking to him.

“I have to go,” I say to my father. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

Snow and I lock eyes across the room, and he looks away first and mumbles something.

“What?” I ask. He shrugs and mutters something again, then drops his bag on his bed.

“Speak up,” I snap, because I’m annoyed at him for interrupting and annoyed at my father for spending my birthday phone call talking about him and annoyed at my father in general and annoyed at Snow for existing and having to be my roommate.

Snow glares at me—he’s a sullen little thing, I’ve noticed—and juts his jaw out.

“Mobiles aren’t allowed.”

I don’t think that’s what he had said at first. I think at first he had apologised.

“Are you going tell on me?” I ask him. “Do you think you can manage to get the words out?”

He freezes in the middle of undoing his tie and goes tense. Then he wads the tie, throws it at the ground, and launches himself at me.

“Anathema!” I yell, but it’s too late. The punch has already landed to the side of my jaw, and Snow is already backing up, clutching at his hand, staring at it in horror.

“Did you forget you can’t hurt me here?” I say, working my jaw. For a scrawny kid, he packs a punch.

He nods and shakes at his hand, but I know it’s not going to thaw out anytime soon. It’s his right hand too. He won’t be able to write or eat or do his tie properly. Everyone will know he tried to hurt me. Wait until Fiona hears.

“Sod off,” he mutters, and I almost laugh. He can’t speak. But he can curse.

I’m kind of relieved, actually. He’s a punk. He’s the rough, crass, scrappy street kid I thought he was, and he’s not afraid to throw a punch. At least now that I know he’s a fighter and not just some scared, silent kid, I feel like we’re on a more equal level.

I can work with this. I respect this.

 

****

 

“Is it true that Fiona sleeps in the stark?” Dev asks as he pops a crisp in his mouth. I almost choke.

“I’m going to gouge your eye out with a salt n’ vinegar crisp,” I tell him, snatching the bag back. Niall looks on in disgust. It’s a Saturday, we’re a few weeks from Christmas, and it’s unusually mild out, thanks to a seventh year who botched some summertime spell. Practically the entire school is out on the lawn, enjoying the tropical climate.

“Isn’t she your cousin?” he asks Dev, horrified. I roll my eyes.

“No. Baz’s dad and my dad are brothers. Fiona is his mum’s sister,” Dev says, elbowing his roommate. They’re always doing that. Poking each other, tackling each other, ribbing each other. They’re genuinely friends.

Snow and I don’t do that.

“Why do you live with Fiona, then?” Niall asks, lounging back in the grass. Beside me, Dev shifts awkwardly. I’m not sure what version of the story he’s gotten, but I’m fairly sure the one he knows doesn’t include my father’s self-professed inability to deal with my Bela Lugosi problem.

“I’m a Pitch,” I say shortly. “It made sense I was raised by one.”

Niall doesn’t get it. So I take another crisp and sit back.

“Malcolm’s also wildly depressed and an awful parent,” I say, trying to sound casual. That’s the kind of shocking thing Fiona would say, I think. It makes me grin. “Growing up with Fiona was far better than rattling around in that creepy old house he lives in.”

“Oi, incoming!” yells a voice, and I look over to see the Bunce girl waving at us as a football comes barreling over. Niall catches it easily, and throws a smile to the group; Bunce, Snow, and Wellbelove, who is possibly the smallest girl I’ve ever seen.

Bunce adopted Snow a few weeks into school, during a class when he was holding his wand backwards, and Wellbelove came along shortly after. I think her father told her to make friends with him; Dr. Wellbelove was my father’s roommate here, but he’s on the Mage’s side 100 per cent. Fiona thinks they’re social climbers, desperate to regain their former power status. It hasn’t been confirmed, but I think Wellbelove is a weak battery.

“Kick it back!” Bunce calls, and Niall grins.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, then starts jogging over. I groan. Niall has developed a bit of a fixation on Wellbelove.

“He’s been obsessed with her for months,” Dev says, wrinkling his nose. He finds this all as annoying as I do. She leant him a pen in class once and ever since it’s been like a death sentence. Half his questions involve Wellbelove; what kind of music does she like? Do you think she’d like if he grew his hair out like Baz? Do we want to go to the lacrosse games? Wellbelove always does.

It’s like a broken bloody record.

“Let him go,” I say, covering a yawn. I was up late last night playing music to annoy Snow. “She’s bound to crush him sooner or later. Let him get it out of the way early and then we can spend the rest of our school years making fun of him for it.”

Dev grins and eats another crisp.

“I wonder who we’ll end up mocking you over,” he says. “My bet is on—”

Dev’s words are cut off by a wave of screams coming from the other side of the lawn, where students are scrambling toward us, followed by an awful, choking sensation, like all the air has been pulled out of my lungs, and I can’t breathe. But I can, my lungs are still working, but it’s—

“My magic,” I say, my eyes wide, turning to Dev. He looks as panicked as I do, staring at his hands and breathing heavily. We’re still seated, watching as kids run by us screaming, and I don’t know why they’re reacting like this, this is terrifying but no need for a stampede, and—

“Dragon! That’s a fucking dragon!”

Dev and I turn to look at the same time as a shadow descends over the lawn and, sure enough, there’s a dragon. A real, breathing dragon.

I’ve never seen one before in real life. Hardly anyone has. Fiona has a moving dragon tattoo on her shoulders that I’ve seen a handful of times, and she says she got it for my mum. (Dragons and Pitches go hand-in-hand. I think it’s the fire.) They make me think of mum now. Burning from the inside, intelligent, wise, in control.

It’s gorgeous.

And it’s terrifying.

Dev and I leap to our feet and we’re about to join the stampede of students trying to get back into the school when I see the dragon’s intended target: Snow.

Niall is still standing with Bunce and Wellbelove, and the three of them are staring and screaming as Simon Snow pulls a sword out of thin air and starts running toward the dragon.

Niall follows.

Dev and I are running before we realise it, screaming at Niall, screaming at Snow, trying to get to our friend before the dragon does. Bunce and Wellbelove are screaming too, their high feminine shrieks cutting through the air. I think they upset the dragon because it shakes its thick crimson head and screams back. It sounds like a spoof of a t-rex sound in a movie, except seven times worse, because this is actually real.

“Simon!” Bunce screams, but she’s not moving toward the boy. Only Niall is, yelling his head off.

“Snow! Snow! Stop! You’re going to get killed!” he shouts, but Snow seems to be blocked out, tuned out completely. He’s stopped running, has planted his feet, and I know he’s giving the dragon that look he gives me at least six times a day. The one that says _“fight me. I dare you.”_

Like me, the dragon doesn’t seem willing to back down.

Niall catches up, slamming into him and putting his hands on Snow’s shoulders and trying to pull him back. I’ve no idea why he’s doing this, other than the fact that Niall is unreasonably and irresponsibly kind. I would have left him. I’m only running toward the dragon to get Niall the hell out of there. Snow can get himself killed if he wants. It’ll only make my life easier.

We’re almost to them when the air around Snow starts to go hazy, and the smell of his magic hits us. We’re all familiar with it by now: it’s always heavier than other people’s magic, much easier to detect, and he seems to just leak it sometimes. It’s awful when you’re stuck in a classroom with him.

But now it’s rolling out across the lawn, surrounding him in green smoke as the air goes black, and it’s like there’s an electromagnetic charge around him. The dragon screams, and Snow thrusts his sword up, and then the entire world goes black.

Before my eyes, Simon Snow explodes like a nuclear bomb. The grass and trees ripple from the energy of the blast, and the air _pops_ with a sonic boom. The blowback knocks Dev and I down, blows back Wellbelove’s blonde hair in a perfect, straight sheet, and I feel jittery and nervous all over, like my nerve endings aren’t working right.

The dragon is gone, and a thin red mist that I think may be blood is softly pouring down like rain, coating everything in the blast site: Simon Snow, standing still, sword still upraised, and Niall Kelly, lying in a tangled heap on the ground next to him.

I get to him before Dev does. My legs are longer, I’ve always been faster.

I try not to choke at the smell of blood that’s covering everything and I roll Niall over, looking for a pulse. It’s there. He’s unconscious, but it’s there, beating strongly, if not a little erratically.

“What did you do to him?” I shout at Snow. He turns to me and blinks, as if just realising that I’m there for the first time.

“What?”

He seems confused, like he doesn't know what’s going on. Like he didn’t just _vapourise a dragon_.

The smell of blood is everywhere and my stomach is churning and I feel like I’m going to vomit or cry or scream, or maybe a combination of all three, if I can’t get away from this smell. Why doesn’t it bother him?

“What did you do to him?” I shout again, jumping to my feet. I push him roughly and he stumbles back, and I see sparks of black magic jittering off of him as he moves. The sucking, awful feeling is gone, I realise. My magic is back.

The flame is in my hand before I call for it.

“What did you do to him?” I shout again.

“Baz!” Dev calls behind me. “Baz, let him go, we need to get—”

“Pitch!” Bunce is screaming, and Wellbelove’s softer, “Basilton!”

Snow looks around at the warzone he’s just created, his eyes landing on Niall and the hollowed out earth around us, blinks twice, then starts to cry.

The tears leave strange tracks on his blood-covered face, streaming down in straight lines, and he’s shaking. The fire in my hand goes out.

“Stay away from us,” I say, pushing at him again, then turn my back to him. Niall seems to be mildly conscious now, partially supported by Dev, and I loop my other arm under his armpit and help pull him off the battleground. He’s twitching against my side, his hand shaking, and he loses consciousness before we manage to get him to the infirmary.

There’s no teachers around helping us, because they’re all out checking on Snow.

 

***

 

“Forty-five minutes!” Fiona shouts into the phone. I pull my legs up under my blanket and tuck myself further into the sofa to watch the show. She’s been pacing in front of me, smoking—even though we have a strict ‘no smoking in the flat’ rule—and she flashes me a wicked grin as she pulls the cigarette to her lips for another pull.

“There was an unconscious, injured student sitting in the infirmary for forty-five minutes before a teacher came in to help him. He was put there by another student. My nephew had to physically carry him there. His well-being was entirely left in the care of two kids!”

She gives me a thumbs up and turns back to the phone.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s my point?’” she shouts, and I prop my chin on my knees. “We pay those bloody taxes for our kids to go to school, and then they let neglect like this run rampant! And let’s talk about Kelly’s injuries. That Snow kid is a hazard. He shouldn’t be allowed around other kids! Kelly can still barely walk in a straight line!”

I nod along.

“Hear hear,” I whisper, and she sticks out her tongue at me.

“Richard, he fucking _exploded_ ,” Fiona says. “Basilton saw it all. He got knocked off his feet, and the kid left a hole in the middle of the lawn. Look, we tried to block him even getting into the school, but we didn’t try hard enough. This is unacceptable. Our kids are in danger.”

There’s a silence, and Fiona hums and nods along.

“My brother-in-law agrees with me,” she says sharply, and then there’s another long silence. My father’s name holds weight, still. And the Grimm-Pitch combination goes places, especially with the Coven.

“Oh, and I didn’t get to the best part. You know why the dragon was there?” Fiona crows, apparently having won the upper hand in the argument. There’s a pause, and then she continues. “Turns out, the Mage took one of its fucking eggs for some experiment. He’s out there shouting about the Humdrum, but Mitali Bunce let it slip to me that he came to her about the egg _two days_ before the attack.”

This is news to me. I sit up. How stupid do you have to be to steal a dragon egg?

No wonder the dragon showed up.

Poor dragon. The Mage stole her child and then Snow blew her up.

She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve it at all.

I wonder what will happen to the egg.

“No, I can’t prove it. I told you, Mitali let it slip. With all this, now, there’s no way she would—” Fiona says, and I sigh. I hate politics. I hate the back and forth of it all, and the he said/she said. I just want Snow gone. It should be simple: he’s dangerous. He can barely do magic. He can’t control the magic he does. And he hurt Niall.

My anger starts to rise again at that. He hurt Niall. Niall, who was trying to save him. Niall, who got so fried by the blast that he could barely speak. Niall, whose spending his Christmas break at home in Ireland, twitching from the aftershocks.

We all got sent home immediately after the attack and started the winter holiday early. All the parents and adults on the Coven are nervous because this is the first time the Humdrum has attacked the school. Except it’s not, not really, as Fiona likes to remind him. It’s just the first time in six years.

I guess we all thought of the Humdrum as something like a sickness. Something contagious, that was spreading from area to area. The main theory was that it was upsetting the dark creatures, which is why they were more active; why they attacked Watford, why they’ve been moving more. We assumed to get away from the dead spots.

But now people think the Humdrum is something more...active. Looking at the vampire attacks and the dragon put together, and the fact that the Humdrum showed up at Watford along _with_ the dragon...well, even if it was the Mage’s fault, there’s still some unanswered questions there.

And people are scared.

“Yes, yes,” Fiona is saying, and I tune back in. “We’re going round to Malcolm’s tomorrow for dinner, I’m sure I’ll see you.”

I wrinkle my nose. I hate going to my father’s house for Christmas dinner. It’s always full of Coven members and old people I don’t know, because that’s pretty much all my father has left in his life: the Coven and his intense hatred of the Mage. Fiona says he didn’t used to be like this—more interested in magickal farming and livestock. But after mum’s death, when I went to Fiona, she thinks his anger and sadness just kind of...turned into a fixation on everything anti-Mage. I know he blames him for Mum’s death, but I don’t really know why.

Even Fiona, who hates the Mage more than anyone, stops to focus on life now and then. I’ve had a heavy anti-Mage upbringing, sure, but it wasn’t all Old Families all the time. Not the way it is with Malcolm. Fiona and I at least took breaks in our hatred to, you know, eat bickies and live.

Fiona hangs up, stubs out her cigarette, and sits on the sofa next to me.

“Are you cold?” she asks, poking at my blanket. I nod and pull it tighter around myself, and she grins. “Crowley, you’re like a fucking numpty, kid. I should have gotten you a space heater for Christmas.”

“What did you get me instead?” I ask, because I’m dying to know. We usually do our gift exchange on Christmas Eve, when it’s just family, since we spend Christmas with Father.

Fiona flicks me on the nose, reaches behind the sofa, and pulls out a small rectangular package. I’m momentarily thrown. I’m used to getting records for Christmas, and this is not record-shaped.

“Open it,” she says, and I do, tearing through the black paper (she thinks she’s so edgy) until I’m holding a small white box. I blink at her. This is the last thing I ever expected.

“I thought digital music was going to be the downfall of musical purity and the end of album cohesiveness,” I say, parroting back the words I’ve heard every time I’ve ever told Fiona what I want for Christmas.

“And I stick by that,” Fiona says, opening the box and pulling out the black iPod. “But it’ll be easier to ignore Snow if you can take your music on the go.”

“He doesn’t know _anything,_ ” I say, full of thrill at the present. “Sometimes I stay up late playing bands I know he doesn’t like just to annoy him. He twitches every time he hears The Buzzcocks.”

Fiona laughs and hands me the iPod, and I take it from her and scroll through it. She’s pre-loaded it with loads of songs already, and I scrunch my nose at some of them. She’s put every Bad Brains album on here. I’m going to have to fill in with some of my bands.

“I got you a Nico album,” I say, because I’m suddenly feeling very self conscious about my gift-giving, especially because it was my attempt to shove music on Fiona that doesn’t involve distorted guitar riggs. She swears she doesn’t like Nico, but I know she’s never even listened to her. I was being a bit of a shit when I bought it.

Her face is stony for a moment, and then she pulls me into a tight hug and rests her chin on my head.

“Thanks, kid,” she murmurs. “Happy Christmas.”

I pretend to resist the hug, but I’m not trying very hard.

“Happy Christmas, ya slag,” I say, my voice muffled by her shirt. She laughs in surprise and lets me go, then punches me in the arm.

“Where the fuck did you learn language like that, young man?”

“Some bint in an ugly jacket,” I say, stone faced. Then I reach over, take my chocolate orange, and turn my attention back to the TV. It’s Christmas. I’ve an iPod, and my aunt, and I’m warm for the first time in weeks. And I will not think about Simon Snow.

Or the other thing. The blood thing.

I could smell the dragon’s blood on Niall all day. I didn’t want to _drink_ it, necessarily. But...I wanted to try it.

But I don’t need to drink blood yet. I don’t have fangs. That’s all that matters, right? My Bela Lugosi problem hasn’t showed up yet. So there’s no point worrying about it. Especially not on Christmas, when Fiona has 1977’s _Bing Crosby’s Merrie Olde Christmas_ special playing, and we’re about to get to the Bowie collab.

I love this collab. Bing is in some ridiculous jumper and Bowie’s next to him, brilliant and collected in a black suit and open shirt, a gold cross glimmering at his neck. He’s so impossibly cool for a Christmas special, which is just about as traditional as you can get. I have a book about him that I’ve read about a dozen times, and there’s a bit about how he made the producers add on the _Peace On Earth_ section to the collab, because he hated _Little Drummer Boy_ so much. I get it. It’s an awful song.

I wish I could be like Bowie. Have the career, do the right things, but do them my way. Make people bend to what I want.

And look cool as hell while doing it.

****

 

“It’s really not that bad. They’re almost completely grown back,” Dev says. I nod, even though it’s a lie. Niall’s eyebrows look awful.

“Gran said she knew a spell for it, but it didn’t seem to work that well,” Niall says, staring in the mirror. His hair is short too, because it had to get chopped since half of it got singed during the blast. He looks a bit like a skinhead, but I don’t want to be the one to say it.

“Bloody Snow,” Dev says, not for the first time. “What kind of nutter blows up a dragon?”

Niall twitches slightly. Snow is a sore topic with him lately, for good reason. I think he’s kind of scared of him now.

“Better question,” I say from across the room, switching out the record. “What kind of a nutter steals a dragon egg?”

Niall stops poking at his eyebrows and nods.

“Yeah, honestly, Snow is insane, but it’s not his fault the dragon was there to begin with,” he says, which I think is wildly charitable, given the fact that more than a month later, sometimes his hand still spasms randomly.

“I can’t believe that man is in charge of a school,” Dev says.

“I can’t believe that man is in charge,” I echo, going back to my school books.

Following Christmas, Fiona and the rest of the Old Families pushed hard to get a vote of no confidence, to oust the Mage from Watford and replace him with a temporary headmaster. Dev’s dad had volunteered, and in a weird show of solidarity, Bunce’s mum had supported the idea of bringing in a different headmaster.

I think that shows how thoroughly spooked everyone was by it, if even the Mage’s allies were backing the initiative.

It fell through, though. The Mage managed to pull some tricks, and we lost the votes needed, and we’re back from school and he’s still here. So is Snow.

Everyone seems alternately terrified and awed by Snow. We’ve been told he’s the Chosen One, but no one really had any reason to believe it, until now. No ordinary Mage leaves a hole that big in the lawn. It’s still there. It was so deep they couldn’t cover it up, so they’ve planted a tree instead.

And Snow has gone more silent than usual, if that’s at all possible.

He’s almost stopped trying in classes, and I know that Miss Possibelf is doing private lessons with him. If he’s not with her, he’s in with the Mage, presumably being given the keys to my mother’s kingdom. Sometimes he’s gone completely, and I don’t know where he gets to.

Some weeks the only thing I hear out of him is his quiet crying at night.

I don’t know what he has to cry about. He’s got a pretty cushy place here, and I’ve never met a more popular atomic bomb.

Sometimes, when I catch him crying, I’ll get up and put on music. I particularly enjoy _Boys Don’t Cry_ , because it makes him get up, ball up his sheets, and leave the room. I’ve no idea where he goes—probably to cry to the Mage—but at least it means I don’t have to listen to his snuffling.

“Do you think Wellbelove likes the clean shaved look?” Niall says now, poking at his forehead. Dev and I look at each other behind his back. We’ve silently agreed to be nice to him for a bit. I let him borrow my jacket the other night, which is about as nice as I get.

“Mate, I think Wellbelove likes a different kind of look,” Dev mutters.

“What kind?”

Dev and my’s eyes meet again.

“I think she’s more interested in blokes who….smoke,” he says, and I have to turn away to keep from laughing. The idea of Snow ever being sane enough to maintain a relationship is, frankly, hysterical, unless he finds someone as damaged as he is and they take up like Sid and Nancy.

I’d love to see that.

“I don’t want to smoke,” Niall says, his voice suddenly small. “Gran would kill me.”

“It’s alright, mate,” Dev says, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t change yourself for a girl.”

“This is touching, really,” I say, interrupting, “but can we please go get dinner? I’m starved.”

My stomach feels like it’s going to eat itself, and tonight is roast, which isn’t typically a favourite, but Cook Pritchard usually makes one of them undercooked, because apparently pixies like their meat a bit raw, and that sounds like a delight right now.

I’m trying not to think about that.

“You’re worse than Snow,” Niall moans. “Crowley, I hate him.”

“You don’t hate anyone,” Dev scolds.

“I hate the Mage,” Niall mutters.

“Hear, hear,” I say. “Now, really, dinner?”

Roast. Roast. Roast. It’s all I can think of. I’ve never felt more like a dark creature with unnatural cravings than I feel right now, thinking of a bloody roast.

“Remember last Christmas?” Dev says suddenly. “When Fiona said she’d take a dump in the Mage’s office? Do you think she’d really do it? I feel like he deserves a dump in his office.”

“I think she’s a bit busy,” I say. Merlin, I’m starving. Or is it thirsty? There’s a tingling in my throat and aching, hollow feeling in my stomach. “Why don’t you go ahead?”

“I’m telling you now, I’d happily spend the next eight years of my life finding ways to make him miserable,” Niall says, reaching for his knit hat. It’s not really cold enough for it, but no one is going to correct him. His eyebrows really look awful.

“Lads,” I say, rolling over onto my stomach, because maybe it will ease some of the hunger pains, “I don’t think it will take eight years to make him miserable. And I don’t think it’ll have to involve shit.”

It takes longer than I wanted to get the other boys to dinner, and we get there last, when most of the roast is taken, and all of the undercooked roast is gone. I know the pixie didn’t eat all of it, which means that other students took it, which is ridiculous, because they won’t even like it.

I stab a few slices of thoroughly grey roast to put on my plate and glare over at Snow, who has a pile of food on his plate, and is shoveling it into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in ten years. He always eats like that. I’m fairly sure if there wasn’t a time limit on dinner, he’d just stay here and keep eating like the black hole he is.

There’s a few pieces of pink roast on his plate.

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone.

“Go spill juice on Snow,” I whisper to Dev when we sit down. Niall is tucked into his dinner already, wolfing almost as fast as Snow. Dev raises one eyebrow, looks at the boy, then back to me.

“Why?”

“Because he took the roast I wanted,” I say, feeling a bit embarrassed as it comes out. “And he’s a tosser.”

Dev shakes his head and picks up his juice. I know that he’s a bit of a push over, and he’ll do pretty much anything I say. It’s because I’m a Pitch, I think. Which is both awesome and mildly terrifying.

Niall and I watch as Dev walks over to their table and leans down to say something to Wellbelove. She smiles up at him prettily (everything she does is pretty. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a dark creature too) and as he leans in to speak again, I watch as his juice glass tips slightly and then splashes all over Snow’s lap.

He jumps to his feet immediately and stares around, his fists clenched, his cheeks red.

“Look out, he’s going to blow!” I yell. It’s not creative, but it works. A handful of students laugh, and Snow grows even more red.

“I’m...I’m not—That’s not—” he starts to sputter.

“What was that?” I call. “Speak up!”

Snow goes from flustered to pissed in two seconds flat. He kicks his chair back, turns on his heel, and storms from the room. Bunce glares at me and Wellbelove looks flustered.

“Bring me his roast!” I shout, but Bunce has beat me to it, and locks eyes with me as she shoves his last untouched piece in her mouth.

“Do you think he’s going to go off?” Niall asks me. He’s stopped eating his food, and looks like he’s going to be a bit sick.

“I don’t know, I doubt it,” I say, shrugging. Niall pushes his plate away from him.

“He’s been on edge a lot lately, and you’re not helping anything,” he says quietly. It’s uncharacteristically harsh for him. “I’m worried you’re going to set him off in class someday, and we’re all going to get blown up.”

“He’s not going to go off,” I say. “Look, I’ll go find him and prove it. He’s probably off crying somewhere.”

I push back from my seat, my roast untouched, and leave the dining hall. Snow had a head start, but not a huge one, and I can see him booking it across the lawn, toward the edge of the Wavering Wood. Why is he going in there? No one goes in the Wavering Wood.

It’s dark out, but my eyesight is actually pretty good at night, thanks to my Twilight problem, so I can easily trace his path. Maybe he is going to go off, and he’s trying to get away from people?

I stay far behind him, so that he won’t see me, but it seems unnecessary. He’s making so much noise and blundering blindly that I don’t think he would hear me even if I was singing and stomping.

By the time he stops, he’s in a clearing. I’ve never been in the woods before, but he clearly has, because he came straight here, and he’s already pulled his sword. He’s swinging it around, grunting and jumping and hacking at a tree, and I think this is supposed to be some form of sword practise. I tuck myself behind a tree to watch.

He’s crying, too. I did that.

“Little Mage,” comes a voice, suddenly. It’s a sprite. I try to hold back a laugh. She looks like some weird anime fetish come to life, complete with umbrella and frilly boots. And she hovers above the ground a bit, which is creepy. Snow backs up, gripping his sword. “Why are you hurting that tree?  
“Uh,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” Snow looks at the sword then back at the sprite.

“Practising.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m angry,” he says, shrugging. “This helps.”

“You can practise your metal waving somewhere else. Why come here?”

Snow sheaths his sword with some flick of his wrist, and it disappears. I’ve never seen him do anything that smooth before.

“I like the Wood,” he says. “The Mage says there are fairies here.”

“You won’t find them like that,” the sprite says.

“I wasn’t trying just now.”

“But you were trying?”

“I have been, yeah. The Mage says if you find a fairy, they can grant wishes.”

I’ve never heard that. Fairies don’t grant wishes, as far as I know. All they’re good for are parts; their wings are great for potions, and their teeth can be ground down into a powder for invisibility. Some old books say their blood is powerful too, just like the blood of any creature, except theirs can be used to amplify power. Also, you can eat them.

Not that I have.

“The Mage wants you to find the fairies?” the sprite asks again. Snow nods and I clench my hand.

“He said if I find one, I should bring them back to Watford, because no one has seen one in centuries. He wants to make deals with them.”

No one makes deals with Fairies. Snow is a fool if he believes this. The Mage is probably looking to kidnap one, just like he did that dragon egg. Crowley knows what he wants to do with it. The nymph and I seem to have the same line of thinking, and she’s staring at him with pity.

“What would you wish for, little Mage?”

Snow shrugs and sits down on the ground, like he’s settling in for a nice chat. I’ve never heard him speak this much in one sitting. This is probably more than I’ve _ever_ heard him speak, actually.

“I dunno,” he says. “I’ve been trying to decide.”

“And what are your options?”

Snow puts his chin on his hand and shrugs again.

“I want to live at Watford, or with the Mage, like full time. I don’t want to go back to a care home this summer.”

Oh. Oh Crowley. That never occurred to me. Fiona and I just assumed that the Mage had moved the Chosen One into whatever hut he lives in in the woods, and they were going to play house.

“I also want to be better at magic. I hate being a mage. Everyone can do things but I can’t. I just hurt people. What’s the point of magic if you just hurt people? Everyone is scared of me.” Snow props his head in his hands and takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I hate magic."

Snow hates being a mage? I can’t imagine hating being a mage. Magic is _everything_ to me. I can’t get enough of it. It’s why I study so hard—not just because I want to be the best, but because I want to _know_. Magic is…

Sometimes, if it weren’t for Fiona, I’d think that magic is really all I have left.

I creep away from the clearing as quietly as I can. I don’t want to hear anymore. I’ve learnt enough for one night.

Snow has everything in the world. All the power he could ever want at his fingertips, and he hates it. He can’t control it. And he’s clearly being used by the Mage.

That’s not what magic is supposed to be like. That’s not what _Watford_ is supposed to be like.

Growing up, I’ve heard so many stories from Fiona about how much fun she had here, and all the awful things she did and all the wonderful things mum did, and none of those stories sound like my Watford experience so far. Or Snow’s. We’ve spent the year making each other miserable and kicking the shit out of each other.

Nothing Fiona has ever said makes it sound like my mum spent her time here fighting with other students.

I still hate Snow. I hate him and what he stands for and what he has. I hate that he has everything, and is too stupid to learn how to control it. I hate that he cries and whimpers like a kicked dog. He’s not the only one with troubles, but the rest of us don’t broadcast it.

Maybe I’ll give him a break. Just for the rest of the year. We’re still enemies.

But maybe I should focus my attention elsewhere.

Maybe I should focus less on making Snow miserable, and more on pissing off the Mage.

I know mum would approve of that.

 

****

 

Bunce is in the library with me, and it’s extremely annoying.

It’s always like this. We’re usually the only ones here. Sometimes an eighth year will roll in and set up camp in the corner, and people will come in and out and check out books, but she and I are the only ones who ever use this place to actually sit down and study.

I come here because it smells nice and my roommate is insane. I wonder why she comes.

The emptiness is particularly notable today. Every sound echoes, and not a single person has come in during the three hours I’ve been here, except for Bunce. It’s beautiful outside, and it’s inching toward an early spring, so everyone is deciding to study outside, which means they won’t actually study. That’s fine. I plan to be top of my class, and that just makes it easier for me.

Bunce might be a problem, though. She’s annoyingly intelligent.

If I didn’t have Snow to deal with, she’s make a good rival.

As if on cue, she sighs, slams her book closed, and looks at me. We’re sitting two tables apart (we never sit together, even when it’s just us) and I look up and pull one of my headphones out.

“I forgot my headphones,” she says. I blink.

“And?” I ask. I’m not sure if she expects me to lend her mine, because I definitely am not going to. I need music to study.

“I need music to study,” she says. “Do you mind if I play it out loud? You’ve got your music on. You won’t hear it.”

I consider saying no, just to be petty, so maybe she’ll leave, but instead I nod and put my headphone back in. I like hearing other people’s music taste. It makes it really easy to judge them.

I don’t turn my music back on just yet, and settle in. I cannot imagine what Penelope Bunce listens to. Probably something from the top of the charts. Probably something as awful and smug as she is, which sounds like—

Oh. She’s playing Queen.

 _Fat Bottomed Girls_ blares through the empty library, and I bite back a smile. I don’t want to look like I approve.

I end up leaving my music off, but my headphones in, as we study to the complete Greatest Hits album. We’re just rounding in on _Radio Ga Ga_ when the door to the library opens.

“Who is playing music in here? I can hear it from my office and—Oh, Penelope. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re in here.”

I’m staring at the Mage’s back, and he looks even more annoying from behind. Really. Who wears the same outfit every day? And who carries a sword around at a _school_? At least Snow keeps his hidden most of the time.

“I’m not bothering anyone, sir,” Bunce says. No apologies. Doesn’t shrink away from him the way other students do. I hate that I kind of like Bunce. I don’t want to like her.

“No,” the Mage says, turning his head from side to side. I don’t think he realises I’m here. “No, I dare say you aren’t. Still, perhaps a change of genre?”

“Do you not like Queen, sir?”

The Mage chuckles in a way that I think is supposed to sound endearing but actually sounds like a stage laugh.

“I just think they’re a bit overplayed. Dreadfully handy for spells, but I have to admit they grate on me a bit. I’ve been enjoying your concert, though! So what do you say? Perhaps we choose a new band?”

“Sure thing,” she says, meeting his eyes. She looks extremely annoyed. I feel annoyed on her behalf. “Any requests?”

I almost laugh out loud at her cheek, but I don’t, luckily, because I don’t want to give away my position and I don’t want to give Bunce the satisfaction.

“If you’re looking to study spell material, I always think Kansas is quite good!” he says, then strolls out of the room. I keep my head low, hoping he won’t notice me or will think I’ve been dead to this conversation. His footsteps echo down the hall, and then Bunce sighs and looks directly at me.

“His reforms are great and all, but his music taste sucks,” she says, sadly, then turns on The Rolling Stones.

Everything about this would usually delight me, but I’m too distracted by the idea that’s currently forming. I lean down and pull my mobile out of my bag (Fiona has insisted I keep it on me at all times, since the dragon) and slide the keyboard out so I can type quickly, the phone concealed under the table.

 **_hey fi_** , I type, **_what was the spell you used on the gates?_ **

 

*****

 

The door slams shut as Snow enters the room, huffing. He pulls off his tie and throws it on the bed, and his bag follows. I guess he just finished his exam. I turned mine in and left the classroom over an hour ago.

I guess his didn’t go well.

He scowls at me as he slams into the bathroom, and there’s the nasty smell of his magic and thumping sounds, and then he stomps back out. I don’t look up from my spot on the window seat.

“Tell Bunce she’s going to want to be in the courtyard in about twenty minutes,” I say, not looking at him.

“What?”

I can understand his confusion. He’s not used to me speaking to him when we’re in the room.

“You heard me,” I say, putting my book aside. I jump off the window seat, push past him, and I’m down the stairs. I hope he delivers the message. It would be a shame for her to miss it.

It was partially her idea, anyway.

I know I’ve just as good as told him I’m responsible for what’s about to happen, but I don’t really care. I’ll happily take the fall. I want everyone to know it was me.

I stop by Dev and Niall’s room before I go out. I don’t want to be the first one there, and we’ve timed it to start just as everyone should be heading to dinner, to make sure the most people possible are there. I don’t even snap at Niall as he fixes his hair for the fifth time.

The courtyard and lawn are packed with people when we get there. I glance at my watch, and see Bunce and Simon arguing in the corner near the largest gargoyle, one of the two that guard the entrance to the dining hall.

Perfect.

The clock strikes five, and suddenly the courtyard is filled with music.

 _“Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time. I feel al-li-li-live,_ ” sings the largest gargoyle. Snow shouts and jumps back, the sword appearing in his hand, and Bunce does a double take.

“ _And the wooooooooorld, I’ll turn it inside out, yeah_ ,” sings a gargoyle on the opposite end of the courtyard. Everyone is paying attention now as a third statues picks up the verse, singing, " _and floating around in ecstasy…”_

Students are starting to realise what’s happening and are laughing. Snow has put his sword away and stares as all nine gargoyles join together.

“ _So don’t stop me now, don’t stop me,_ ” they sing. “ _Cause I’m having a good time, having a good time._ ”

The guitar riff kicks in and the gargoyles kick up their harmony, and students are singing along now, laughing and dancing to Queen. Bunce grabs Wellbelove and pulls her into a shimmy, and even Snow starts laughing, jumping up and down to the beat. I’ve never seen him look this excited.

“Crowley, I can’t believe it worked,” Dev mutters from beside me. Niall has left, to go cut in on Bunce and Wellbelove’s dance party, and Dev and I side step to avoid a group of seventh years who have turned into a flash mob.

“Of course it worked,” I say back, but I’m still grinning. I don’t mention how long it took me to learn the spell properly. It took me even longer to choose which Queen songs to use.

The song is moments from ending when the double doors of the Weeping Tower burst open and the Mage appears, striding toward us.

“Very funny, very funny!” he says, pulling out his wand. “ ** _As you were!_** ”

The gargoyles switch songs, and the courtyard shakes as they start stomping and clapping.

“ _Buddy you're a boy make a big noise, playin' in the street, gonna be a big man some day!_ ” they sing, and Snow barks with laughter. Bunce points to him and mouths the words as the gargoyles chant “ _you got mud on your face, you big disgrace!”_

 **“** ** _Back to start!_** **”** The Mage shouts, and the gargoyles stop stomping. There’s silence through the courtyard, and a few kids make disappointed noises, until the largest one quietly says, “ _I’ve paid my dueeessss_.”

“Merlin, how many songs did you charm?” Dev asks, unable to stop laughing.

“Fifteen,” I tell him smugly. “They’ll just keep restarting until he lets _Bohemian Rhapsody_ play through in full.”

The Mage is slinging spells, the songs skipping and skipping until he finally comes to _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Students shout the second the lead gargoyle asks “ _Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”_ and the Mage sighs, looking very put upon, and puts his wand back in his robe. A cheer goes up through the crowd as he shakes his head and goes back inside. Across the crowd, Bunce makes eye contact with me and gives a firm head nod.

I nod back.

Someone throws an arm around my shoulder and I glance sideways to see a fifth year I don’t know, whose joined with about ten other students I don’t know, all singing and swaying along. It’s chaos. Everyone is singing, everyone is laughing, and everyone is dancing.

“ _Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters…._ ”

Fiona would love this.

Bunce and Snow headbang their way through the _mamma mia!_ s, Wellbelove dancing pretty circles around them, her hands sliding in and out of Niall’s as everyone screams, _“so you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_ _So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_ ” Trixie the pixie dances through the crowd, throwing glitter (I think it’s glitter. I hope it’s glitter), and the courtyard is in complete pandemonium until the gargoyles finish their song and all take a synchronised bow. The students cheer and applaud them, still laughing, and over the crowd I can hear Snow laughing loudest of all.

“I love magic!” he shouts.

I put my hands in my pockets and stroll toward dinner.

I wonder how long until the Mage finds out I charmed the gargoyles outside his office as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUSIC MENTIONED IN THIS CHAPTER:
> 
> ALBUMS:  
> T. Rex: Electric Warrior  
> Soft Cell: Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret  
> SONGS:  
> T. Rex - Bang A Gong  
> T. Rex - Rip It Off  
> David Bowie & Bing Crosby - Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy  
> David Bowie - Suffragette City  
> The Cure - Boys Don’t Cry  
> Queen - Fat Bottomed Girls  
> Queen - Radio Ga Ga  
> Queen - Can’t Stop Me Now  
> Queen - We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions  
> Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
> 
> BANDS:  
> Led Zeppelin  
> The Cure  
> The Pogues  
> The Velvet Underground  
> The Buzzcocks  
> Bad Brains  
> Nico


	3. It Ain't Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year two: white weddings, midnight road trips, football, bickies, academic rivalries, more pranks, pre-pubescent angst and the origin of the Infamous Merwolf Feud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a thank you to @great-merlins-beard for beta reading and listening to me babble nonstop. Thank you to @bread-of-god-is-bread for shouting about Joy Division at me, and inspiring the OutKast spell. God bless 2003. And thank you to John Mulaney, whose joke I stole.
> 
> As a note, this fic is regularly updating, but there is not a current publishing schedule: I'm posting as I write!
> 
> You can check out the 'rebel rebel' playlist on Spotify here: https://spoti.fi/2vgJ2TT
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs and albums mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> chapter title:  
> It Aint Easy -- David Bowie  
> https://spoti.fi/2LR84nq

“You can’t wear your punk ass jacket to your dad’s wedding,” Fiona says, taking another sip of coffee and wincing slightly behind her black glasses. She’s trying to pretend she’s not hungover, but she’s doing a bad job of it. The nonstop noise of the train station probably isn’t helping, either. Or the fact that I blared The Sex Pistols on the drive over here, just to piss her off.

“I didn’t say I’m wearing it to the wedding, I just said I was bringing it,” I snap back over my burnt Costa tea. I wanted coffee, but Fiona said no. She claims it’ll stunt my growth and delay puberty. _“Do you want to spend your life with a voice like a little flute?”_

“So you’re telling me you have absolutely no plans to crash down the aisle in Docs and a Mohawk?” she asks.

I sniff.

“Some of us don’t have to be so obvious about our rebellion. And besides,” I say, sneaking her coffee cup away while she stares off in the other direction, “I like suits. Bowie wears suits.”

I take a sip of the coffee and try not to pull a face. It’s bitter and awful and absolutely not worth the hype.

“Hey isn’t that your friend?” Fiona asks, pointing. I turn to look for Niall and she grabs the cup and smacks the back of my head.

“That was uncalled for,” I mutter, rubbing at my head as I turn to look around at the station. Where is Niall? His train was due in already, and he, Fiona and I are supposed to leave for Hampshire so we can all socialise with my very awkward relations and act like it’s not at all alarming or weird that my father is getting remarried. To a woman named _Daphne._

Jinkies.

“Seriously though, isn’t that him at the pretzel stand?”

My eyes lock onto a very flustered, tall boy whose being loaded down with bags as the woman next to him tries to find something in an oversized purse while juggling a screaming baby.

“Yup, that’s him,” I say, taking her coffee back. It tastes just as disgusting on the second try.

“What is he doing?”

I shrug.

“Being nice, I think. It tends to get him into trouble.”

“That’s weird,” Fiona says, snatching the cup back. She rubs at her temples and props her elbow on the rickety train station table. “I’ve never known anyone who’s nice.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Maybe he can teach us how to be nice to Malcolm and his boring hick relatives,” Fiona mutters, finishing off the rest of the coffee. I roll my eyes. I don’t think even Niall can teach Fiona how to stomach the Grimm side of the family. She’s been vocal about her dislike for as long as I can remember. It’s been made very clear that my mother married down.

Fiona stands up with a groan, propping her hands on her back to stretch. She likes to act like she’s permanently 17, but I love to remind her that she is, in fact, 29, and is getting old.

She’ll practically be dead soon.

Fiona glares at me and throws away her cup.

“You’re thinking something shitty,” she says suspiciously. “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear it. Let’s just get your friend and then get on with this rodeo.”

The Grimms are farmers. I’m going to be hearing farm jokes for weeks.

I prefer to call it a dog-and-pony show.

 

****

 

It’s hard to sleep with Dev squirming on one side and Niall practically snoring on the other. Dev shifts and I narrowly dodge his foot, just like I have been all night.

I’m not totally used to sharing a room with someone else yet. I got a bit used to Snow, I guess. His sleep noises are different, though. I know them. Everything about sharing a bed with Dev and Niall just seems weird.

I don’t mind sharing with them. My bed at Malcolm’s house is huge and big enough for the three of us, but it’s more that we didn’t really have a choice in it. All the other bedrooms are taken up by wedding guests, because _Daphne_ has a huge family and Malcolm thought it would be fun for the three of us to “have a sleepover.”

It was kind of fun, actually. My X-Box is back home in London, but there is a TV in here, and after the rehearsal dinner we all escaped the adults and came up to watch movies. Dev and Niall passed out kind of early, but I’m still awake.

It’s hard to sleep, I guess. Even if my friends weren’t here.

“Where did your dad even meet her?” Dev had asked when I called him with the news at the beginning of the summer.

“Some boring Coven function, apparently,” I’d said. I was sitting in the garden of our flat  furiously and deliberately pulling leaves off a plant while I talked to him. “Her name is Daphne and she makes him very happy. Apparently.”

“Weird,” Dev had said.

Which pretty much sums my feelings up nicely.

I’m glad that Malcolm won’t be alone, I guess. It makes me sad, sometimes, to think of him here, by himself, being depressed.

But all of this is going so fast, and even though I don’t want him to be miserable, there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to be happy like this. Why does he need a new wife?

He had a son.

With a sigh I push back my blankets and get out of bed, crawling over Dev’s legs carefully and hopping down from the bed. I’m tall for my age (not as tall as Niall, but I’ll get there, I think) but this bed still seems too big for me. I can’t imagine how I handled it when I was five.

It’s cold, so I steal Niall’s Shamrock Rover’s F.C. sweatshirt and head over toward the huge window seat. It’s the only thing in this room I like. It reminds me of the window in my room at Watford.

I open it a bit to let in some of the cool air, and press my head back against the panes. I can hear some laughter and music from the garden below, which means the adults are still going. I wonder if Fiona will be hungover again tomorrow. That would be brilliant. She’s supposed to be in the wedding party too.

There’s a noise underneath the window and I crane my neck a bit and see my father and uncle leaning against the brick wall, each drinking out of a pint glass. I’ve never seen Malcolm drink anything but wine before. He must really be letting loose.

“Seriously Mal, what was that? He looked ridiculous,” my uncle Dominic is saying. I hate Dominic. He’s even more boring than Malcolm, and he looks like a troll. I hope Dev takes after his mum when he grows up.

My father takes a sip of his ale and shakes his head.

“I’ve no idea,” he says calmly. “He’ll be in a suit tomorrow though, that’s all that matters.”

“Well, as long as he looks respectable then,” Dominic says. His hand moves and he takes a long puff on a cigar. Some of the smoke floats up to tickle my nose. “Sorry to be severe. I just worry about him, out there in London with no one but Fiona for guidance. Who knows what kind of things she tells him.”

Oh. They’re talking about me.

My stomach flips a bit. It’s me who looked ridiculous today, then. I wore my jacket on the drive and around the house to meet everyone and say hello, and I had a Joy Division shirt on and a pair of old Vans. I’d changed for the rehearsal dinner though. I’d looked proper.

I thought I’d looked nice, actually.

Whatever. That Joy Division shirt is awful, anyway. I’ve been planning to get rid of it or give it to Niall. Everyone seems to have one these days, and you know 90 per cent of people don’t even know any song other than _Love Will Tear Us Apart_. So it is a ridiculous shirt, he’s right.

“Fiona’s a good sort,” Malcolm says, and my stomach unclenches a bit. “You don’t need to worry about her. She’s a Pitch.”

At least he gets it.

“Still,” says Dominic. “I’m thrilled about this. Really, Mal. You deserve it. Daphne is beautiful, and you deserve to be happy. Have a real family again.”

My father stares out toward the yard, and I watch him. My uncle is right. He does deserve it. I know he gave me up and all, but I sort of get it. It was a lot to deal with, and he wasn’t well. When Fiona turned up that Christmas there was no tree, no presents. Barely any food in the house. I remember sitting alone in the den, watching TV, when she came in with that Paddington bear for me. Malcolm was still asleep upstairs, even though it was afternoon.

She’d searched the house looking for something to eat, and when she couldn’t find anything she’d gone upstairs for a really long time, and I’d heard yelling. Next thing I remembered, we were all in the car on the way to get chips, and when the meal was over, Malcolm told me I was going to be staying with Fiona, just for a bit.

I guess we just never reassessed that arrangement.

“Thanks, Dom,” my father says quietly. “I can’t wait for this adjustment period to be over. I don’t think Basilton’s happy about it.”

I’m not. Not really. But I suspect I’ll come around to it.

“He’ll come around,” my uncle says, waving his hand. Screw him. How would he know? “He’ll just need some time, but this will all be for the best. Have you talked to him yet?”

Talked to me about what? What other news could Malcolm possibly have to launch on me?

“No,” my father says. “I’m going to wait until Christmas, and then I thought we could start next summer, when he comes back from Watford.”

“Good,” Dominic says, blowing smoke from his cigar. “I know you weren’t your best, but this whole thing is weird, Malcolm. Especially now. People on the Coven have always been curious about it, but they’re too polite to say anything. But with everything happening, I think the appearances do actually matter.”

“I know,” my father says. “I know, trust me. There’s...well, there’s some complications. But it’s what I want. And I know Fiona will agree it’s for the best, she’s always understood family responsibility.”

“Good luck,” Dominic says. “From what I’ve heard, he can be a bit… strong willed when he wants to be. Gets it from the crazy Pitch side, I’d guess. You should hear the shit Dev says about him. Apparently he rides that Snow kid like no other. Not to mention that business with the gargoyles. It was complete—”

“I know,” my father interrupts. He sounds exhausted. “It was immature.”

Immature? My gargoyles weren’t immature.

The knot starts to reform itself. Fiona and I were going to use that same spell tomorrow, after the wedding. We were going to make the gargoyles on the manor sing _All You Need Is Love_. We got the idea from that Christmas movie Daphne apparently loves.

I know Dad loves the Beatles.

“Things will be better when he comes home,” Dominic says, reaching out to clasp my father on the shoulder. “A boy should be with his family. Especially with the new baby on the way. It’ll all shake out. He’ll get into line. He knows it’s what the Old Families need. It’s what Natasha would want.”

I almost slam the window shut in my hurry to get away from this conversation. There’s too much going on, too much to process. Daphne is pregnant?

Malcolm wants me to come live at home?

I won’t.

He may be my father, my Fiona is my family. I’m not leaving her. He can’t give up his kid and then suddenly decide that it didn’t happen and he’s ready to act like everything is normal again, especially not just because the Old Families want him to. If he wants to have some perfect nuclear family, he’s got one. He doesn’t need me for it.

He just needs my name.

I hate him.

And I hate the Old Families.

No one is taking me from Fiona.

I grab my duffel and begin shoving my clothes in it as quickly as I can. The noise wakes Dev, who rolls over and stares at me groggily.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Niall wakes at the sound of his voice and blinks up at us.

“Decided I fancy some fish n’ chips,” I say, shoving a pair of socks, that might be Dev’s, into my bag. “Want to come with?”

“What about the wedding?” Niall asks.

“Sod the wedding. Don’t feel like going.”

Dev is up immediately.

“What happened?” he asks, grabbing at the duffel. I let it fall to the floor between us.

“Don’t feel like going,” I repeat. “I’m going to get Fiona and go back to London. You two can come if you want.”

“I can’t,” Dev says. He looks so serious and sad. He looks like Malcolm. “You know I can’t.”

I nod. There’s only room for one rogue Grimm in this family. I look at Niall and raise an eyebrow.

“You?”

Niall glances between Dev and I, then scrambles out of bed and reaches for his own bag. Dev starts helping him shovel clothes in as I leave the room and creep across the hall to where Fiona is staying. Please let her not be drunk.

I knock twice, and there’s a grunt from the other side, so I open the door and step in. Fiona is sprawled on her stomach on the bed, scrolling through the channels. She’s still wearing her cocktail dress, but she’s sober. She grins when she sees me.

“Hey boyo,” she says, pointing at the TV with the remote. “I was going to watch something, want to join?”

I shake my head. I think my hands might be shaking. I shove them in the pockets of Niall’s hoodie and look down. I’m still barefoot.

I feel very young right now.

“I want to go,” I say. I raise my head and stare at her, and I jut out my chin, just like Snow does. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him right now, but this is his fighting stance, and I’m getting ready for a fight.

“Kid, we have a wedding. We’re in it. We can’t miss it,” Fiona says, frowning. “What’s up? I thought you were cool with all this?”

“Daphne is pregnant and Malcolm wants me to come back to live here,” I say. I hadn’t meant to blab it all out, to spill all the secrets, but there it is. Whatever. Pitches are known for being untrustworthy.

The air hangs silent around us for a moment, and then Fiona rolls off the bed sideways and shoves her feet into her large boots.

“We’ll go out the back,” she says, reaching for her jacket. I nod.

“Niall’s coming with us,” I say. She nods back and grabs for her suitcase. She never unpacked.

“Dev?”

“He’s staying,” I say. There’s a wild, uncontrolled thrill running through my stomach. This is happening. She’s agreeing to leave. I don’t have to stay here, I don’t have to deal with the wedding.

I don’t have to come back and live with them.

Niall, Fiona and I are ready less than three minutes later, and Dev follows us down the stairs and toward the garage entrance. The music in the garden is louder down here, which is good. People won’t know we’ve left.

We sneak out the door, throw our things in Fiona’s car, and are speeding down the driveway in under ten minutes.

“Baz, you’re on music,” Fiona says as we pull away from the manor house gates, but I’m already kicking my feet up on the dash and plugging my iPod into the strange cassette player Fiona had rigged up with a bit of spit and magic. The Violent Femmes floods through the car.

“Ooh buckle up, Kelly, Baz is pissed,” Fiona says. She glances in the rear view mirror and frowns. “No, seriously, buckle up. What’s wrong with you, kid?”

I hear the click of Niall’s seat belt from the back, and I lean my head against the glass.

“Kelly, where do you live?”

“Dublin,” he says. He sounds a bit overwhelmed by everything that’s happening. If I didn’t live with Fiona and me, I guess I would be too.

“Is it nice?” Fiona asks. In the mirror I see Niall shrug.

“I guess?”

Fiona leans forward to check the road, then takes a left turn.

“You boys fancy a road trip?”

I glance sideways at her and nod. I don’t care. She can take us wherever she wants, as long as it’s away from here.

I lean back against the seat, fold my arms, close my eyes, and let the music wash over me.

 

_'Cause it's gone daddy gone_

_The love is gone_

_Gone daddy gone_

_The love is gone away_

 

****

 

The Chosen One is already crying.

I walk out of the bathroom and I almost don’t see him at first, because he’s huddled himself up in his bed, and I almost don’t hear him over my music. I have my iPod hooked up to my record player so I can listen to _Transformer_ out loud. Lou Reed is drowning out most of the small hiccups coming from the bed, and I don’t know if Snow thinks he’s being subtle, but he’s not.

He also wasn’t here a moment ago, which means he just got back to Watford and the first thing he did was crawl into his bed and cry.

Crowley, he’s unbearable.

“Why are you weeping already?” I ask, crossing the room to turn down _Hanging Around_. “This ruins my plans to push you to tears.”

I didn’t really have any plans like that. I’d kind of planned to leave him alone. I have my own crap going on right now, and it doesn’t actually include him.

Snow makes a noise from under his blankets, like he’s trying to stifle his sobs, and I sigh.

“What can you possibly be upset about already?” I snap. There’s silence from the other bed, then—

“‘M not upset,” he mumbles. Then, “go away.”

“This is my room, I’m not leaving. You leave. Go cry to the Mage,” I say.

“Sod off,” he mumbles, then slowly sits up. He wipes at his eyes with clenched fists, and I get my first real look at him. He’s thin. Thinner than he was when we left, anyway, and there’s a huge bruise dotting down the side of his face that looks like it’s a few weeks old.

“Not until you tell me why you just had a breakdown,” I snap back. This is far more conversation than I’d allotted for the entire year. “And what happened to your face.”

Snow is silent, staring at his blankets like he wants them to fly up and strangle him. His magic is so weird he could probably make it happen, actually. I scoot back a bit, just to make sure I’m not in any potential blast zone.

“It’s just…” he starts, then closes his mouth.

“It’s just….?” I prod. He glares at me and I sigh. I don’t know why I care. I don’t, not really. “Come on Snow, tell me. Did you also have a bad summer?”

He looks at me, surprised, then back to the floor.

“I didn’t know if it all was going to still be—”

There’s a knock on the door, and we both jump in surprise. I can see him settle into himself, preparing himself the same way I am, because surely it’s the Mage on the other side of the door. The knob turns, and I try to make sure my intense hatred isn’t showing, when the door opens to reveal—

My father.

I stand up immediately.

“Malcolm,” I say. Snow stares between me and my father, clearly confused. “Why are you here?”

He’s holding a box under his arm and wearing a three-piece suit, and the idea of my father standing in my room at Watford — it’s wrong. This is my place, where there’s no Old Families or Daphne or constant phone calls or family drama. How dare he come here?

He has no right.

“The door still remembered me,” he says with a small chuckle. “It’s been decades since I’ve been here. Hasn’t changed though.”

His tone is forcibly polite. He’s as weirded out by this as I am. He sees Snow in the corner and nods.

“Mr. Snow, nice to meet you,” he says, and he almost sounds like he means it.

“Why are you here?” I repeat.

“Because you wouldn’t answer your mobile,” he says, his friendly mask dropping for a moment. “Basilton, I was wondering if we could speak in private?” He glances at Snow, who immediately pushes back his covers and goes to stand up. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone with Malcolm. I don’t want to be alone to have to face up to what I did.

I don’t want to have to face up to what he did.

“No,” I say quickly, staring Snow down, trying to tell him as clearly as I can that _move and I’ll kill you_. “It’s Snow’s room too, we’re not kicking him out. Just tell me what you came to say.”

I’ve never spoken to my father like this. I’ve never spoken to any adult like this.

It feels good.

Malcolm looks at Snow and shifts, then places the box under his arm on one of the desks.

“I’m not sure what happened at the wedding—” he starts, but I shrug.

“I had other things to do.”

He stares at me, and I squirm a bit. I forgot he can be intimidating when he wants to be.

“I’m not sure what happened at the wedding,” he continues, like I didn’t interrupt him, “but there are things I want to talk to you about. Your mother and I were hoping we could spend Christmas together.”

“I know about the baby, I know about your plot for me to move back, and I’m afraid I have plans for Christmas,” I say icily. “Thank you for coming, Malcolm, but Snow and I are due at the picnic.”

My father looks struck. Snow looks thoroughly spooked, his big blue eyes round and alarmed.

“Basil,” my father says, softer, “I’m not sure how you found out, but I wanted to be the one to tell you. Things haven’t been — they aren’t — your mother and I—”

“What’s in the box?” I ask, instead of listening to my father stumble over his words like Snow. This is awful. Everything about this is awful, especially because no matter how awful I’m acting, my father doesn’t look angry. He looks _hurt_.

How dare he be hurt by this? He’s the one who gave me up, and he’s the one trying to take me away from my family, all for the sake of appearances. My mother would have been disgusted.

My real mother. Not Daphne.

“It’s a birthday present,” he says tightly, looking at the box. “I had planned to give it to you at the wedding. It’s…” he trails off and looks at Snow, then back to me. “Please think about Christmas. It would be nice to have you home, Basilton.”

He clears his throat, nods at Snow awkwardly, then leaves.

 _I’m So Free_ is playing on the record, the only sound being made in our room. Snow stares at me, opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.

“Not a word,” I snarl. I’m looking at the box in the corner. I want to know what’s in it, but I don’t want to give Malcolm the satisfaction. I dart across the room and go to pick it up, and am surprised by its weight. There’s a flame in my hand already. I’m not even going to look inside, I’m just going to set it on fire.

In tight letters on the top of the dusty cardboard carton is scrawled _NAT: BOOKS AND RECORDS_.

The flame goes out, and I shove the box under my bed without taking the lid off, my hands shaking.

“Are you—” Snow starts, but I whirl on him.

“Don’t you have someone to go blow up?” I snap. He takes a step back, then narrows his eyes.

“You don’t have to be such a dick all the time,” he growls, then stomps out of the room. The door flies shut behind him as I storm over to my iPod, scroll through my albums, and turn the dial all the way up on the first Bowie song I see.

This year is going to suck.

 

***

 

“I really, really hate this song,” I mutter, lugging my laundry bag down the stairs. “Please. Anything else.”

“No,” Dev says, turning the radio up higher. “You always get to be a jerk about music. I was here first, my music.”

“It’s not music though,” I say, throwing my bag on the floor in front of an empty washer. “What do the words even mean? It’s vulgar.”

“It’s OutKast,” Dev replies. I scrunch my nose.

“It’s just...noise,” I say. Really, this song has no musicality. “It sucks.”

“You suck,” he retorts, shoving a handful of boxers into the washer next to mine. At the top of the stairs, I can hear Niall struggling with his laundry bag. Sometimes I think if Dev and I didn’t remind him to wash his clothes, he never would.

I open the washer in front of me, only to find that there are still clothes in it.

“Why do people do this?” I ask, groaning. “Just stay with your laundry. Look, it’s all mouldy. People are disgusting.”

I slam the door closed again and move on to the next washer. Also occupied. Also moulding. Does no one understand basic hygiene?

“Sweet merciful Merlin,” Dev breathes from beside me. “Baz. Look.”

He’s pointing in the washer, but I’m not really getting his point. It’s just a bunch of smelly green clothes.

“Baz,” he says again. “I think… I think that’s the Mage’s laundry.”

Our eyes meet.

“It’s not possible,” I breathe, even as I reach inside the machine and pull out a large tunic. Several pairs of canvas leggings are next to it, the ones with about sixteen cargo pockets. He has to have these made custom. No one would ever sell these.

“I need silence,” I say, clutching at the tunic in my hands like it’s the Holy Grail.

“But—” Dev starts.

“Silence!” I bark. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I have to use this. It has to be good. I could set them on fire? Or maybe rub them in poison ivy? Maybe dip them in piss? No. These are all so juvenile. I need something unexpected. It has to be—

“Wellbelove.”

Dev and Niall’s heads snap up at the same time. Somehow, over the summer they seemed to have switched crushes. I get Niall’s, I guess, considering that Fiona took him on a whirlwind adventure, but I don’t really get why Dev is into Wellbelove now. He says they hung out at the club and at horse shows, but that sounds so boring.

But, admittedly, I don’t really get the appeal of girls or crushes at all, and I don’t really understand why they’re already so hung up on them.

“What about her?” Dev asks.

“She does ballet, right? She has stockings. I need her stockings.” I shove the clothes back in the washer and turn to Dev, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Dev. Do you think you can get me those tights?”

I’ve never seen my cousin look so serious in his life. He nods.

“I’ll get them,” he says. I clap him on the back. Good man.

Dev races out of the laundry room, and Niall and I quickly pull the Mage’s clothes out of his empty washer, sorting through them to pull out all the leggings. There’s about six pairs in here, and I’d be willing to bet it’s almost his entire wardrobe.

“If we dye them yellow, he’d look like Big Bird,” Niall whispers from beside me. I’m almost shaking with anticipation.

“I don’t know a spell to dye things,” I respond. This feels like an immense failure on my part. I spend my summers studying Greek and Latin, because that’s what my Mum did, but I don’t know a basic pranking spell.

My mind is racing with possibilities.

“Dev does,” Niall answers. “He keeps charming my pants pink.”

Niall and I lock eyes, and I grin slowly. It’s a good plan. And Dev will like it. He’d never say anything, but he’s a bit put out that he wasn’t part of the Ireland adventure, and got left behind to deal with our family. He's been having to hear about everything we did since term started, and I think if he hears the story about stealing the kebabs and making a break for it one more time, he's going to kill us. Making him instrumental to this prank will bring him back into the threesome, and hopefully put an end to some of his weird moods.

Dev is taking a while, so Niall and I go about our business, washing our clothes like we meant to. I have the Mage’s things shoved in the bottom of my laundry bag, just in case someone comes in, but no one does. I guess the good thing about making students responsible for their own laundry is that the laundry room is always empty.

When my cousin finally returns, he’s holding several pairs of white stockings and looks extremely grim.

“What did you have to do to get those?” Niall asks. Dev shakes his head.

“Agatha is a monster,” he says, and that’s all we get out of him.

Maybe this will cool some of the obsession with her.

We fight a bit over exactly what to do, but in the end we shove a bundle of clothing back into the washer, and pray it will work. I’ve never done a timed transfiguration spell before — I’ve never even done a timed spell before, actually — so I don’t know if the leggings will transform into the tights at the right time, and we don’t know if they’ll turn yellow when they’re meant to either.

I just pray I get to see it happen.

 

****

 

Niall bursts into the room in a tangle of limbs and nearly collides with Snow. My roommate takes a large step back, trying to avoid being hit again.

“Out, you’ve got to get out, right now,” Niall hisses, closing the door behind him and shoving me toward the bathroom. “Dev’s stalling him but it’ll only be a minute.”

“What?” Snow and I ask at the same time. He looks confused and minorly alarmed, and he’s dropped into a fighting stance.

“The Mage,” Niall whispers, not even looking at Snow. “He’s steaming, mate, he knows it was you, you’ve got to go.”

There’s nowhere _to_ go though, that’s the problem. If the Mage is on the stairs, the only place to hide is the bathroom, and he’d definitely find me there.

“What did you do?” Snow growls, trailing Niall and I to the bathroom. He looks suspicious but also sullen, which I’ve noticed is a trademark Simon Snow reaction.

“Big Bird,” Niall says, and I almost have to bend sideways to stop the giggles that are trying to rise out of me.

“Really? Right now?” I ask. Niall nods.

“Big Bird?” Snow asks, just as there are voices on the stairs. I look around the room wildly, trying to find somewhere to hide. The bathroom is out, but maybe—

“Don’t say anything,” I hiss to Snow, then dash across the room, pull myself up into the window seat, and pull the curtain just as the door opens.

“Oh. Simon. You’re here.”

The Mage sounds surprised, and more than a little awkward, and I desperately wish I could peer through the curtains right now and see him. He must look incredible.

There’s a long, long silence, before I hear Snow say, “....sir.”

He sounds stunned.

“Kelly, what are you doing here?” the Mage snaps.

“Studying, sir,” Niall replies. “I came to get Baz’s notes from Magic Words.”

“And where is Basilton?”

I hold my breath. Snow is going to rat me out. I know it. He’s the Mage’s dog, and he’s such a stickler about rules. I’m dead.

“Er—he’s….” Snow trails off. I guess I did ask him not to say anything. But there’s a long silence and I realise that he could be pointing at my hiding spot and I’d never know.

“Why is the window closed?” There’s movement, and I can hear footsteps coming toward me. Crap. Crap. Shit.

“Baz keeps it closed,” Snow says. That’s not a lie. I do like to sleep with the window closed. We fight about it constantly.

The footsteps get closer and closer. Crap. If he finds me, I’m dead. I’m—

The window isn’t closed, though. It’s open.

Since I got back I’ve been annoyed that Niall grew taller than me this summer, but right now I’ve never been more thankful for my lack of a growth spurt, because I’m just short enough to pull myself quickly through the window and—

If I angle it just right, I should be able to swing down into Dev and Niall’s room, I think. They’ve a small ledge that juts out, and if I’m careful—

I hear the curtains in the room pull back, and I let go.

I massively underestimated this drop. I’m nowhere near Dev and Niall’s window, and I land directly in the water with a heavy splash.

This is fine, actually. I’m a decent swimmer. Fiona and I sometimes go to Brighton in the summer, so I can hold my breath. I’ll just swim down the moat, pull myself out near the pitch, dry myself off and then hide out until he’s gone. It’ll be fine. Humiliating, a bit, but no one will see me. Totally fine.

I’m swimming under the drawbridge when I realise I forgot about the merwolves.

Everyone avoids them because, frankly, they’re terrifying. Which I become acutely aware of as a pair of teeth latch on to my trouser leg. I surface, gasping and kicking, and see the horrifying damp fur of the merwolf right behind me. I kick at it, landing a good blow to its gills, but it doesn’t let go. It growls and shakes its head and I get dunked back under water. I can't breathe. I'm swallowing water, and I can't see anything. My head is going numb and I can’t reach my wand — I’d lose it anyway, if I tried to pull it out — and there’s a bubbling growl and through the murky green water of the moat I can vaguely make out two more swimming towards me.

I surface again, scrabbling toward the bank, desperate to breathe, trying to get away, when I hear a yelp rip through the air. There’s a loud splash next to me as a rock ricochets off the merwolf’s horrifyingly mangy yet slippery head, and then there’s shouts, and a purple flash, and the creature shakes it head, stunned, and swims away.

I pull myself out onto the bank, gasping and dripping wet. I'm alive. I got away. I turn to the moat where the merwolves are still swimming, waiting for me to return.

"Fuck off!" I shout, and then spit at them. It's the worst thing I can think of. I'd kill them all, if I were about six inches taller and not somewhat shaking currently.

Then I turn to face my saviours.

“Basilton, are you okay?”

My eyes trail over the chubby girl in front of me, who looks torn between laughing and frowning, and the waif of a girl next to her whose eyes look like they’re going to pop out. Agatha Wellbelove and Penelope Bunce. Brilliant.

“ ** _Nice and dry!_** ” I cast on myself, and a soft heat washes over me. It doesn’t dry me completely, but pretty close. My boxers are still slightly damp.

I turn my wand on Bunce and Wellbelove.

“ ** _Our lips are sealed_** ,” I snarl. I poke my wand at them. “Come on, say it. Not a word about this.”

It’s a dangerous spell for me to try; it’s meant to keep this a secret unless I tell someone, to ensure a kind of three-way privacy, but if it goes badly they could be mute for a bit. I’m hoping my intense humiliation will be enough to charge the spell.

“Basilton, we’re not—”

“Say the spell or I’ll pull one of those mangy things out of the water and sic it on you myself,” I snap, my wand still pointed at them. I’m trying to look intimidating, even though I know the spell probably made my hair puff up and I have to look like a loon. They look at each other, then sigh and say the spell. Satisfied, I lower my wand. I might not be intimidating, but at least I got what I wanted. Snow will never find out about this, unless I tell someone.

Which will never happen.

“Thank you, by the way,” I say, straightening my blazer. The two girls stare at me, and then Wellbelove breaks out in giggles.

“Were you running from the Mage?” Bunce asks. She’s biting down a smile. “Are you the one who spelled his clothes yellow?”

“That’s my business,” I respond primly. Wellbelove lets out a snort.

“Is that where my stockings got to?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

I shove my hand in my pockets and attempt to stroll off like I wasn’t just rescued from a moat and a flesh eating creature by two twelve-year-old girls. I can still hear Wellbelove snorting behind me.

Dev was right. She is a monster.

I cut through the faculty parking lot on my way to the pitch, and my eyes fall on the Mage’s Land Rover. I’ve done enough for one day. I should really let it be.

But my boxers are wet still and I’m more than a little annoyed by how humiliating my grand escape was, and also all I can think about is how much I hate the Mage and his stupid pets. Merwolves. Snow. He needs to get a handle on his animals.

I pull out my wand again, look around, and cast a quick “ ** _stick like glue_** ” to the doors.

I pocket it, square my shoulders, and head back toward my dorm.

Next time I’m in trouble, I’ll just stay and take the punishment like a Pitch.

  
***

“Everyone thought it was hysterical. Well, except Snow,” I shout. I pause to take a sip of hot chocolate and sigh. “Crowley I wish I could have seen it. Fi, the next day he was wearing jeans. Jeans. Like a real person. Can you imagine?”

There’s silence from the kitchen, and it suddenly occurs to me that Fiona may not be listening to my exploits. I push up from the sofa and pad through the living room and into the other room. I quite like our kitchen; it’s got the largest window, so there’s the most light, especially on the table, where Fiona is now sitting, talking on her mobile. I guess she was ignoring me.

“I’ll tell him,” she says, then a pause, then, “you too. Happy Christmas.”

She puts down the phone and looks at me, and small tendrils of dread curl up my stomach.

“That was your father.”

I didn’t tell her about his impromptu visit to Watford, or the cardboard box under my bed I still haven’t opened. But I guess they’ve been in communication, so she probably knows. I steel myself. Is this when Fiona tells me I have to report to Hampshire? Is she going to make us go for dinner? Do I have to see him?

“You have a little sister,” Fiona says. Bless her, she just really goes for it. No nancying around. “Named Mordelia. She was a bit early, but they’re all doing well.”

“Mordelia,” I say, sitting down. I honestly thought my family had outdone themselves with Tyrannus, but this is something else.

“Mordelia,” Fiona echoes.

“Mouldelia.”

Fiona is silent for a moment, then smiles.

“Boredelia.”

“Morguedelia.”

Fiona grins and reaches across the table and drags the biscuit tin toward us. It’s one of those twee Dickensian ones you can get at Asda with all kinds of bland, generic biscuits in them, but we buy one every year.

“Do you want to see her?” Fiona asks me quietly. I put a shortbread in my mouth and think it over.

A sister. I never really thought of the idea of siblings, and I’ve kind of been deliberately ignoring it since I found out. A sister. Whose twelve years younger than me. The same age difference between Fiona and Mum, almost.

That hurts for some reason I don’t fully understand.

A sister.

I’m glad it’s a girl, I think. The girls in this family seem to do well enough. The men are all bastards. I’d rather a sister.

But...seeing her would mean seeing Daphne, and having to face her after running out on her wedding. And it would indicate to Malcolm that things are okay and I’m okay with this and what he’s done and what he wants, which I’m not. And I’ve spent the entire school year very deliberately not thinking about this.

“Not yet,” I say, taking another shortbread. They’re awful without tea, I don’t know why I’m eating them. “Maybe...maybe this summer.”  
Fiona nods and sips at her tea.

“Mordelia is actually kind of a metal name,” she says lightly, and I sigh, draping myself over the table.

“It is, isn’t it?” I say, morose. “So much more metal than Basilton.”

“It’s never too late to go by Tyrannus,” she says with a wicked smile.

I throw the biscuit tin at her.

 

***

 

“I’m open!” I shout over the din of other players. “Snow, I’m open!”

I don’t know if he can’t see me or if he doesn’t know what I mean, but Snow pauses in the middle of the pitch and stares around, just as Dev sweeps up from behind and steals the ball. He drives it down the field and sinks it neatly into the goal.

Coach Mac’s whistle cuts through the air.

“Good, good,” he shouts, his ruddy face red from the early morning air. It’s absolutely freezing out here, and I hate him for scheduling the tryouts in March. “Alright, let’s split up. Left side, you’re on one team, right side, you’re the other. Reset!”

I glare at Snow as we reset our places. He’s on the opposite team now, but he doesn’t seem to know where to go, and he stumbles a bit until Niall awkwardly points him in the right direction. Why did he bother trying out for the football club if he clearly has no idea how to play? Dev and I share a glance — we’re on the same team now — and I shake my head. He laughs a bit, then takes his place as the whistle blows again.

One of the other players — Gareth — gets control of the ball and drives it up the field, Dev closed behind. Gareth looks around quickly, then, for some reason, passes it to Snow. I drive toward him as fast as I can, getting there before Niall, and dart up to steal the ball from Snow. He turns to block me, and I try to pull myself away in time, but we collide before I can stop it, my shoulder checking into his forcefully. He goes flying back and hits ground with a shout, and the whistle cuts through the air.

I didn’t think I checked him that hard. He shouldn’t have gone that far. I really didn’t mean to send him down. The other players are gathering round him as Snow rolls over, groaning, clutching at his shoulder. Coach Mac hovers over him, poking at it, and Snow moans again. His face is red with sweat and it’s scrunched up in pain, and everyone is whispering and staring at me.

“I think you dislocated it,” Coach Mac says grimly, bending down to help Snow up. “Niall, Gareth, walk him to the nurse, there’s good lads.”

Dislocated? I didn’t hit him that hard.

Snow glares at me as he passes, his face distorted into a mask of pain and anger, and it looks like he’s trying not to cry, his red cheeks huffing in and out.

I didn’t think I hit him that hard.

Coach Mac blows his whistle again and we all huddle up.

“Okay, good play. Good hustle, Pitch,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Just dial back the aggression a bit. But I like the enthusiasm! Okay, let’s take that again from the top!”  
I reset my place, but I’m not focused on the play.

How did I dislocate his shoulder? I know my strength, I know there’s no way I’m strong enough to have packed that big of a punch.

Unless…

We go through the drill again, and I run up to steal the ball from another player. I check him as I pass, but I pull back. My actions feel nearly sluggish and weak, but he still stumbles a bit when I hit him. I take the ball and drive it down the field. The other players are struggling to keep up with me a bit, almost only Dev can match my speed.

I sink the goal, but I don’t feel good about it.

None of this feels good.

I love football. I love playing football, because I’ve always been good at it. But what if I’m only good at it because of my Bela Lugosi problem? How is that fair? It’s an advantage, one that I can clearly abuse, if I managed to _dislocate Snow’s shoulder_.

Merlin, he’s going to be an absolute nightmare about this.

I pull my boots off and throw them farther than I mean to when we get into the locker room, and I take a sullen, silent shower down on the end by myself.

So what if it’s not fair? I think as I shampoo my hair. Life isn’t fair. Nothing has been very fair to me. There are absolutely no advantages to my issue, so what’s so wrong with me carving one out?

I get dressed and slick my hair back. It’s grown long; a bit longer than Bowie’s, so it doesn’t do the nice wave like his does in my poster. Maybe I should cut it a bit, trim it up on the sides so it’s more like his.

I don’t have his cheekbones, though. So what’s the point? I’ll never be like Bowie.

Dev calls out to me as I shoulder past him, but I ignore him and trudge out of the locker rooms, past the pitch, and toward the school buildings. I need to relax. I feel wrapped so tight that my skin might explode, and if I see Snow back in the room one of us is going to get slammed by the Anathema.

I check to make sure no one is looking, and then slip into the stairwell of the arts building, which leads to the third floor practise rooms. It’s not a secret that I play piano; everyone knows, it’s one of my extracurriculars and I’m in the orchestra, but I still don’t like practising when people are around, especially not when I’m in a strop, as Fiona likes to call it.

I make her soundproof the living room, sometimes, when I’m going to play. I don’t like people hearing me unless I’m perfect.

The rooms are deserted, because no one in the right mind is up this early on a Saturday, and I pull my things out of my locker and head to the far room, the one just around the corner that connects to the balcony, and close the door.

There’s a Steinway in this room,  which is far, far nicer than all the other pianos in this school, and I have no idea why something this sensational is tucked away like this. I sit down at the stool, stretch my fingers, and begin to play.

I pluck out a few scales to warm up, then slide into a piece I’m working on for class that’s boring and slow. I stop halfway and plonk my way through the first few bars of _Sympathy For the Devil_ , but I stop that too. It feels discordant and wrong and completely out of tune with my mood. I’m a devil. I don’t need sympathy.

I glance at my case in the corner. I haven’t touched it this year, not with everything that’s going on. I’ll be awful at it, and I hate when I’m awful at things, but—

It reminds me of her. Of what maybe could have been if I wasn’t the way I am.

I push back from the piano bench and tentatively unzip the case and pull out my grandfather’s violin. Fiona gave it to me when I was nine, and I’d already started piano lessons by then, because I was extremely clear that I wanted to be able to play Queen songs, and no one in bands played violin, so what was the point?

But it smells good. And it feels good in my hands. And loads of Pitches have played this violin, including my mother.

I don’t take lessons for this. This is just for me. No performances, no orchestra. I just...I play this for myself. And for my mother.

I don’t know why this is all so much harder this year. Is it being at Watford? Is it the wedding? I’ve always missed her, but this—

I stop myself. I pluck at the strings, I tune it, and then I start playing.

Last time I did this I was learning _Heroes_ , and the sheet music is still in my case, so I pull it out, smooth it out, put my bow to the strings and go.

Crowley, it feels good to play. I’m not as good at violin as I am at piano, but right now it feels so much more natural. The sustaining notes of the bow reverberate more, and I go faster and faster, skipping over notes sometimes to get back to the chorus.

I love this song. Fi always says there’s that one song that you come back to. She told me I’m too young to have that song, but I think she’s wrong. She says it’s stupid to have this be my favourite song. _“You don’t even get it,_ ” she said once. But who says I have to? Who cares if there’s some deeper message. I like things to be literal, sometimes. We can be heroes. We can be good. We can be better than our basic selves.

Just for one day.

I’m smiling, I realise, because it feels so good. I can go as harsh as I want, and all I’ll do is destroy a bow. My weird super strength doesn’t matter here, because it’s just me, my bow, and Bowie, and—

Snow.

The song screeches to a halt as I see his head duck down behind the window of the practise room door. I throw it open, not putting down the bow first, and find him trying to back away. His arm is in a splint, and he’s scowling.

“Why are you here?” I snap.

“You dislocated my shoulder,” he says. “Why did you do that?”

I blink at him. Crowley, he doesn’t think it was on _purpose_ , does he?

“It was an accident,” I say.

“It’s my sword arm,” he snaps back. It’s also his writing arm, but apparently Snow is more concerned with his ability to wave a stick than do his homework, which really shows where his priorities lay.

“Learn to hack at things with your left, then,” I say, crossing my arms. My instrument settles against my chest, and I suddenly feel very stupid. I try to pull myself up to my full height, which is approximately one inch taller than him.

“I didn’t know you played violin,” he says suddenly, staring at it. I shrug.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

He squints at me, and there’s a suspicious gleam in his eye, and I grow uncomfortable. Snow is an idiot; an absolute dunce. But sometimes he can be shockingly perceptive. It’s dangerous to underestimate him.

“I’m starting to realise that,” he mutters. “But I’m going to find them out.”

He turns on his heel and strides back down the hallway, and I go back into my practise room and slam the door. I run a hand through my hair, steady my breathing, and try to keep playing. But it’s not the same. The swooping release and levity I felt before is gone.

Every note feels wrong.

Every note hurts.

The sheet music curls up in flames, and I shove the violin back in its case.

That song is overplayed, anyway.

 

***

 

Penelope Bunce scored higher than me, and I’m going to kill someone.

I wasn’t as focused as I should have been on that essay, I can admit it. Magickal Theory is my best class, and I’ve been skating, too focused on this nonsense with Malcolm and my plots against the Mage and my ongoing feud with Snow.

It’s Snow’s fault, honestly. The night I was meant to be writing the essay he was clacking away on his laptop, being so noisy I almost couldn’t think. I’d had to get up and pace and then turn on _Disintegration_ because Robert Smith’s voice calms me, but I’d forgotten that I used to use The Cure to torture Snow, so he thought I was mocking him, and it turned into a big fight.

Anyway, I got so distracted that night by spelling Snow’s laptop shut and his shoelaces together and sticking his wand to the ceiling that my attention slipped, which is why I got a 97 on my essay and Bunce got a 99 on hers, and why someone now has to die.

Everything is falling apart. My grades are clearly slipping. I haven’t done a prank on the Mage in months. Snow punched me twice last week. It was the first thing he did when he got his sling off, and he hasn’t stopped since. I’ve been giving as good as I get, but I’m holding back, just a bit. And I’m always hungry.

At least I can control my grades, though. If those fail, it’s entirely my fault, because it’s entirely within my ability to control. If my mother were alive, she would—

She was mad about school. I think she was probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.

My eyes flick to the box barely peeking out from under my bed. I still haven’t touched it. It’s been months and I haven’t opened the lid.

I’m curious. I want to know what’s inside, because I’m fairly positive it belonged to my mother. _NAT: BOOKS AND RECORDS_ it says, which are my three favourite things in the entire world.

But Malcolm was the one who gave it to me. What if the box is mislabeled? What if I open it and it’s something awful and lame? And do I want to know what Malcolm decided to give me to try to bribe me over to agreeing to his wedding?

And what if—

What if she wouldn’t want me to have it? Because of...because of what I am. Or what I’m going to be?

I’m not a fool. I know that she wouldn’t have approved of how soft hearted my father and Fiona have been about this, everyone just pretending it doesn’t exist and that I’m not going to sprout fangs some day. My mum wouldn’t have ignored it, I don’t think. She would have taken care of it.

Creatures like me killed her. Would she want one of those things to go through her treasures, to have her books, to have her records? It’s easy to keep this idea and memory of my mother in my head, I guess, because I don’t have anything concrete to disprove it. I don’t have anything of hers. All her things are packed up in the attic at Malcolm’s house, or integrated into the library in the Mage’s office.

Sans one box.

I feel dizzy sometimes when I think of this stuff. Mum. Malcolm. I don’t know who to hate. Who would she want me to hate? Myself? Malcolm? Do I want to hate Malcolm? Do I blame him?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

With a shout, I kick at the corner of Snow’s wardrobe, and pain lights up my foot. I try to calm myself down, but my hands are shaking a bit. Merlin, I’m just like Snow, leaking emotion and losing control. Pathetic.

I take a deep breath and pull out my mobile and type in the number with fingers that feel disconnected from my body.

Two rings.

“Hey boyo, what’s up?” comes Fiona’s voice from the other end of the line. There’s music on in the background — Depeche Mode? — and the sound of sizzling food. She’s cooking. Probably frying something. All she can make is hangover food.

I pause. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to start crying. I don’t want to tell her that I’m falling apart over a box. I don’t want to tell her that nothing seems right and this isn’t how Watford was supposed to go and I don’t want to whine about how much I hate the Mage and Simon Snow.

“Penelope Bunce must die,” I say instead. Fiona snorts.

“Bad day?” she asks.

“Bad life,” I mumble, sitting down on my bed. I can hear the strains of her music and I feel so homesick it almost hurts.

“Did the little Bunce piss in your Wheetabix, or is this actually about Malcolm?” she says. There’s a clicking noise — one, two, three — and I can tell she’s lighting a cigarette from the burner on the stove. She’s settling in for a chat. I lay back and settle in as well.

“It’s everything. I got a 97 on an essay,” I say. It sounds pathetic, even to my own ears.

“Right. So?”

“Bunce got higher.”

There’s a long moment of silence, then a sigh.

“So work harder next time. You know you can.” Something warm stirs in my chest. I know this. I’ve been telling myself this. It feels good to be told it, though. To have it confirmed. Fiona is never one for coddling. It’s always been tough love.

“Fi?” I ask. She hums. Her voice sounds good. I didn’t realise how much I had needed to hear it. “Do you think...do you think my mother would be… okay with this? With me?”

Fiona laughs, which is the last thing I expected.

“No, definitely not,” she says, and my stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself. Hot, boiling acid fills me up and I feel like I’m going to puke. “She would be horrified by your music taste. She thought David Bowie was freaky. She’d hate all your pranks. She’d skin me for keeping you from Malcolm. And she would _never_ accept a 97 on an essay. But she’d love you, boyo. Twilight problem and all. Don’t you ever get up in your head about that, okay? Don’t you ever listen to the version of your mother that Malcolm likes to spin off, the woman who was all rules and no feelings. She’d slap your awful little ass in line, but she’d love the fuck out you, even more than I do. You hear me?”

I let out a breath I’ve been holding for twelve years.

“Hey Fi?” I say again. “Will you...will you tell Malcolm we’ll see him, this summer? And my sister?”

I can hear the crackling of burning paper as Fiona takes a drag on her cigarette.

“You got it, kid.”

 

***

 

“Yes, twelve dozen roses.”

“ _A_ _nd the name for the card? Sender and recipient?_ ”

I lay back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. The Modern Lovers are thrashing happily in the background.

“To ‘The Mage’,” I say. I can hear the woman’s typing slow slightly from the other end of the line, but I keep going. “Please have the card say, ‘with love from The Humdrum.’ That’s H-U-M-D-R-U—”

The door bursts open, and I sit up to raise an eyebrow. It seems to be a common occurrence this year. The door is always slamming one way or the other, either Snow or I coming in huffy, or Niall appearing with news. It’s a wonder things haven’t started falling off the wall.

It’s Snow this time, of course, because Dev and Niall are off waiting to ambush the Mage with **_“roses really smell like poo-poo_** ” which is the most juvenile spell I’ve ever heard of, but Dev created it from some horrible OutKast song and is really proud of it, so we agreed, but he has to cast it since I don’t know the song, and—

Snow is bleeding all over our floor.

He sits down heavily, grasping at his arm where the blood seems to be originating from, and blinks at me.

“Crowley, what did you do?” I shout, going to him. I don’t know what to do.

“Snakes,” he says through clenched teeth. “Two of them.”

“Serpent,” says a voice behind him, and suddenly Penelope Bunce is in my room, holding an armful of rags and an expression that means business. How did she get in here? Girls can’t cross the threshold to Mummer’s House, and there’s no way a second year is powerful enough to break the wards.

“You got attacked by snakes?” I ask. I can see the wound that the blood is pouring from now—two huge punctures in Snow’s arm, which have to be fang marks, and must have come from a snake the size of Fiona’s MG.

“Serpent. Just one,” Bunce says, pushing one of the rags to Snow’s arm. The smell of his blood is overwhelming, and my stomach makes a loud noise. Bunce glares at me. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?”

“I’m not sure how I got involved in this,” I snap, taking a step back from the tangy, citrusy scent that’s emanating off of my roommate. “Why don’t you take him to the Mage?”

“He’s off on a mission,” Snow mutters. “Won’t be back till,” he winces, “tomorrow.”

“What about Possibelf?”

Bunce nods.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” she says. She turns to Snow, and her voice softens. “Okay, Simon, you stay here. I’m going to get her. Basilton, watch him.”

“Why do I have to—”

“Merwolves, Basil!” she shouts, stomping from the room. My music is still going, but it’s too chipper, too upbeat for the intense nauseated feelings roiling through me.

“What?” Snow asks, his mouth falling open a bit. He’s sweating. His skin is red and a bit blotchy in places, and there’s blood smeared across his cheekbone, stopping just before a mole under his right eye. He’s covered in moles, I’ve noticed; on his neck, his chin, his arms, his shoulders. This one is the most distracting though, because it’s right there. You can’t look at his eyes without seeing it.

“Why did you get bitten by a snake?” I ask, ignoring his question about the merwolves.

“Was looking for something. Didn’t know it was there.”

“Snow, those fangs must have been the size of my hand, how did you miss it?”

“I thought there was only one. Killed that easily,” he says, shrugging, then he winces again. His head lolls back to rest against the bed frame. “Didn’t know there was a second one.”

“Why were you in a snake pit?”

The song changes, and Snow and I both jump in surprise when Jonathan Richman starts speaking in tune. I’m grateful for the distraction, because all I can do is stare at Snow’s mole and smell his blood, and I’m as far as I can possibly get from him already. I’d have to throw myself out the window again to get any further.

“Mage asked me to get a gem that was lost,” he growls. I blink. The Mage sent him into a pit of vipers and then left the school? What the hell? “Kept underground and—” he flinches again, then growls and smacks his hand into the side of the bedframe, and I jolt. Is this how he manages pain?

He’s awfully comfortable with it.

I sidestep my way to the bathroom, grab a flannel, wet it in the sink, then hand it back to him. He takes it with a suspicious glare, then removes the rag. The smell of blood gets thicker, the pool at his feet getting larger as the water drips down and thins it.

“Thanks,” he says, panting slightly, and I have the wild urge to pull out of my wand and try _something_ , even though I don’t know any healing spells at all. They’re far too advanced for a second year, and I never had any interest in learning them before.

Maybe that should be my summer project.

Just to keep my room from drowning in blood, that is.

“What’s this music?” he asks, jerking his head toward my record player. I don’t know if he’s actually interested or if he’s just trying to distract himself.

“The Modern Lovers,” I say.

“It sucks,” he responds, then swallows. I watch his throat bob up and down with the exertion.

“You suck,” I retort, watching as he scrubs his hand over his sweaty face. He had blood on his hands, I don’t think he realised. He left a large smudge of blood on his forehead and his cheek, right over the mole.

_All right you Modern Lovers what do you say?_

_(I'm straight!)_

I need to get out of this room right now, away from this music and Snow and his laboured breathing and his blood streaked face.

_Tell the world now_

_(I'm straight!)_

I think I’m going to be ill.

_That's it_

_(I'm straight!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs Mentioned In This Chapter:**
> 
> All You Need Is Love — The Beatles
> 
> Love Will Tear Us Apart — Joy Division
> 
> Gone Daddy Gone — Violent Femmes
> 
> Hanging Around — Lou Reed
> 
> I’m So Free - Lou Reed
> 
> Sympathy For The Devil — The Rolling Stones
> 
> Heroes — David Bowie
> 
> Roses — OutKast
> 
> I’m Straight — Modern Lovers
> 
> **Albums Mentioned:**  
>     
> Transformer — Lou Reed
> 
> Disintegration — The Cure


	4. changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year Three: Hell dimensions, The Talking Heads, first crushes, Billy Joel, getting high, boys falling from the sky and puberty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **THANK YOU TO:**  
> 
> @great-merlins-beard for beta reading and keeping me sane
> 
> @bread-of-god-is-bread for talking to me about Baz and  _The Excorsist_
> 
> You can check out the [**'rebel rebel'** ](https://spoti.fi/2vgJ2TT)playlist on Spotify!
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**  [Changes — David Bowie](https://open.spotify.com/track/0LrwgdLsFaWh9VXIjBRe8t?si=s8XMYCmqT0Os2CV8YJRISw)
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs and albums mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> _Authors Note: this fic is regularly updating, but there is not a current publishing schedule: I'm posting as I write! Thank you for all the wonderful comments, they really are what keeps me writing!_
> 
> _Also: I am playing fast and loose with canon, so some things are different. If you see something that seems egregiously wrong though, let me know!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Also: Thank you for reading this long, long, rambling mess of a fic._
> 
>  
> 
>  **CHAPTER CONTENT WARNING:**  recreational drug use (weed), strong language, semi-graphic description of violence.

I don’t understand babies.

They’re odd. And small. And loud. And they smell weird. I get the larger, big picture idea of babies; they’re going to grow up to maybe be something of value one day, and so you put in effort now to ensure that they can maybe be interesting down the road, but on a whole they’re just wildly unimpressive. Maybe that’s just the predator in me, though. Maybe other people get the appeal?

“I don’t get babies,” Niall says, passing my mobile over to Dev. He glances at it, makes some kind of noncommittal grunt, and passes it back.

“ _She looks angry,”_ I text back, then pocket my mobile. I know Daphne is going to respond again, and I really don’t want to get stuck in a text conversation with her about Mordelia which will end in about three more baby photos and then a stream of questions about whether I’m excited for school and am I happy to be back and _do let her know if I need anything_! That’s how all of our awkward conversations go since she got my mobile number and permission to keep me updated on Mordelia.

The worst thing about Daphne is probably that she’s so bloody nice. Nice people confuse and mildly alarm me.

Case in point: Niall, who is digging into his bag and passing around chocolate that he brought all the way back from his holiday trip, just to share with people.

Who is that conscientious?

I lie back in my spot on the lawn and break off a piece of chocolate and let it melt in my mouth. It’s good. All of this is good, actually. Lying here in the sun, feeling warm and happy and next to my mates is good. Being back at Watford feels incredible; seeing Dev and Niall is great. Being away from my family is a relief, but a good kind of relief, like when you’ve had too much sun and you get to sit in the air conditioning, but you still feel happy and satisfied.

Malcom is still Malcolm, and I’m still me, but the good thing is that we both apparently share a desire to never, ever talk through our issues. So all I had to do was agree to meet my baby sister and sit through several extremely awkward dinners wherein my father choked anytime Daphne tried to bring up feelings, and now everything seems to be a bit resolved on that front. There’s been no more talk of me moving back, and I specifically mentioned Fiona and my’s plans to travel to New York this coming summer, so I think he should have gotten the memo:

This “family” thing can work. But only on my terms.

Everything is going to be on my terms, I think. There are good things here, and good things happening, and I won’t think about the bad things, I’ve decided. There’s only two bad things in my life right now, anyway. Well. Maybe one and a half, depending on how you look at it. So I’m not going to look at it.

Unless it falls on me.

“ _UNF_ ,” I grunt, unbidden, jumping up from my seat and shoving Snow off of me. I don’t know where he came from because I had my eyes closed, but he suddenly landed on top of me, limbs at all angles, knocking the wind from my lungs. He grunts and rolls to the side, but he’s harder to dislodge than normal. He stands up, glowering, covered in grass stains, and I realise he’s grown several inches over the summer.

Bunce and Wellbelove come running up, both out of breath, Bunce’s ridiculous cape floating in the wind behind her.

“What happened?” she huffs, completely ignoring the fact that Dev, Niall and I are here.

“I don’t know, I just touched it,” Snow says, shrugging. “And then I fell here.”

“ _Really_ _?_ ” Bunce says. “Show me.”

“Penny—” Wellbelove starts.

“Hey Agatha,” Dev says, nodding at her. She barely even smiles at him.

“This is huge!” Bunce says. “It dropped him on the other side of campus! We have to go back. If he touches it again, will it drop him in the same place? I think it’s a defence measure.”

“Hello, nice to see you Bunce,” I say, standing up fully. I’m an inch taller than Snow still. Beautiful. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I started saying fuck over the summer. It makes Fiona laugh when I do, and I think she may be laughing at me, but Dev sounded suitably impressed when I cursed at him during football when we were all at Malcolm’s for dinner over the summer, so I’ve kept it up.

Snow whirls on me and snarls.

“Stay out of it,” he mutters, then turns back to Bunce.

“You fucking jumped me, you cocksplat,” I snap. “You brought me into this. So kindly fuck off.”

Snow, Niall, and Dev all stare at me. Snow’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. Maybe I should dial the cursing back.

“You fuck off,” he says, shoving me. Oh good. He’s cursing now too.

“Is this how you greet me? I thought we were friends now, after I mopped you up off the floor last term,” I sneer. “Hi Baz, how are you doing? Nice summer? Oh, good, me too. Nothing happened, I just lost six brain cells and grew into a chavy fucking numpty,” I say, pitching my voice lower and doing an awful Brummie accent that sounds nothing like Snow. He grows red around the ears, and I shove him back. “Fuck off back to wherever you came from Snow, and try not to get in my fucking way for once.”

He’s breathing hard, and I see a scratch on his chin that’s welled up with small droplets of blood. I pull out my wand and point it at him, and he flinches as I mutter _“_ ** _get well soon!_** _”_ and the cut sews itself back up.

“And try not to bleed all over my shit this year, hm?” I say, then turn my back to him and address Dev and Niall. “Come on lads, I think I saw Cornettos.”

Dev and Niall are staring at me like I’m some kind of god.

“ _Cocksplat?_ ” Dev asks as the three of us walk away. I shrug.

“Fiona says it all the time,” I respond.

“She’s brilliant,” Niall says in a breathy voice, and I hear Dev sigh.

“I’ve been waiting to call Snow that all summer,” I say, deliberately ignoring my best friend’s infatuation with my aunt, and Dev lets out a loud bark of laughter that echoes through the lawn. I look away from my friends and keep my head down as we search for ice cream, and I don’t dwell on the memory of Snow’s weight on me, and I don’t think about the fact that we’re almost the same height now, and I absolutely do not think of the thin line of blood I just wanted to lick off Snow’s chin.

 

***

 

It’s not something that I would share with Dev and Niall, but there’s one thing I’ve been looking forward to about third year more than anything.

Classics.

There’s not many additional courses you can add to your schedule, but Watford starts giving you the option to pick up extra classes third year, starting with a few language courses and _Classics_. Books. History. Romantic poetry.

Romantic as in the era, not the insinuation of relationships. I’m not interested in that. I just like Byron. It’s fine. Whatever.

It’s one of the few classes left over from my mother’s original course catalogue, and I can understand why: it’s advanced learning to help deepen understanding of classic spells. There’s no actual magic done in the class. It’s all just reading and discussions, and I’ve been looking forward to it since before I started Watford.

And best of all, Snow isn’t in it.

That surprises me, a bit, because I would think he would jump at anything that doesn’t require magic, but apparently the Mage chooses his courses and this doesn’t make the cut. Whatever. Even better.

“What’s the new professor like?” Bunce asks as she sits down next to me and pulls out a notebook. She does this thing where she starts conversations in the middle and expects you to keep up. I always do (or at least pretend to) because I’ll never admit that she’s lost me.

I also don’t know why she’s sitting next to me.

“Why would I know?” I drawl instead, not looking up from my iPod or pausing The Flaming Lips. (I wanted something upbeat for the first day of classes. _The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song_ is obnoxiously peppy.)

“Do you listen to anything released after you were born?” she asks, peering over my shoulder. I move the iPod away from her and glare. I also don’t answer her question. It’s stupid. This song was released in 2005, anyway.

“Mum says he’s an Old Family type,” she says, switching back to her earlier topic. “Figured he’s your uncle or something.”

“We’re not all related,” I respond, even though we kind of all are.

“Inbreeding says otherwise,” Bunce responds, taking out her pencil case. All of her stuff is slightly cluttered, dinged up and used looking, like she wears her materials to the ground. All of my things are pristine and orderly.

“You can find a new seat now,” I say instead, and go to put my other headphone in when the door to the classroom opens and Hugh Grant walks in.

Not actually Hugh Grant.

But pretty fucking close.

He blinks at us from behind huge glasses that push up his overly fluffy, sandy hair, and his arms are full of books, the sleeves of his blue button down rolled to his elbows already. He can’t be more than mid-thirties, I’d think, definitely somewhere around Fiona’s age, maybe a bit older. When he turns to put the books on the desk, the sun shines through his thin blue Oxford and I can clearly see the shirt he’s wearing underneath, the Talking Heads logo peering through just for a moment before he turns and the sun hits the back of his hair, lighting it up like fire.

“Hello,” he says, smiling. “I’m Charlie Hollow.”

“Holy shit,” Bunce breathes from beside me.

Holy shit indeed.

Charlie Hollow — _Professor_ Hollow — doesn’t waste a moment of class time. He dives into the subject matter and hands out books at breakneck speed. He picks fights during discussion, then leans back against his desk and crosses his arms and smiles while we squabble. Sometimes when someone makes a good point, he slaps his desk in excitement. Once, during class, Bunce gets on a particularly long tirade about _Romeo and Juliet_ and he throws his head back, baring his neck to the class, and laughs loudly.

All I could think was how much I hated Bunce in that moment, for making him laugh.

I have never studied for a class like I study for Classics. I’m used to studying. I love studying, it’s not a chore for me. But I’ve never studied in order to get approval of a teacher; it’s always been for me.

But I really, pathetically want Professor Hollow to think I’m smart.

It’s because he’s a good professor, I tell myself. He’s a great teacher and it’s a great class, and I love it because of the subject matter and because my mum designed it and because I love learning, and he loves teaching, so obviously just everything about this means a lot to me. Of course I want to succeed.

Three weeks into the school year, he asks me to stay after class, and I feel like I’m going to vomit.

“Basil, take a seat,” he says, and then proceeds to sit on his own desk, one hip cocked up, his other leg extended toward the floor. I sit in the desk in front of him.

“You’re an incredibly gifted student,” he says, and something warm in my stomach coils. “Truly, I’ve been impressed. You have a good understanding of the source material, and you manage to find modern connections to antiquated language. It’s advanced stuff.”

“Thank you,” I say tightly.

“I think you would do well with additional instruction. There’s no higher level offering of this class, but it would be a shame to cut you off here. If you’re interested, I’d love to offer you some additional tutoring in this. It would mean more work, more hours, more reading, but I think you’d do well at it.”

I’m humiliated to admit it, but I preen.

I love being told I’m intelligent.

“I’ll take that grin on your face for a yes,” he says, laughing, and I flush a bit. I didn’t even realise I was smiling. “No, no, don’t be embarrassed! You never smile, it’s a nice thing to see.”

I might have just left my body.

“I’ve another student doing advanced work as well. You know Penelope? You’d be doing the sessions together.”

I just came plummeting back to earth and got sucked into a black hole.

Bunce.

I nod tightly, and Professor Hollow claps his hands and rubs them together.

“Excellent! Will your father be at the parent conferences next week? I’d like to talk to him about what we’ll be doing.”

“My aunt will be. She’s my guardian,” I say, trying to push past the immense and inexplicable urge to strangle Bunce with my bare hands.

“Fiona?” he says, startling me out of my downward spiral. “Really? Oh, I haven’t seen her in ages. Not since Watford, I think.”

“You know Fi?” I ask, surprised. I drop my posh student voice for a second.

“Yeah, you could say we go back. We used to have to do all these boring Coven functions together. She’d get dragged by your Mum and I’d get dragged by my dad, and we’d sit in the back and smoke.” He laughs, then goes a bit pink. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that bit.”

“I was raised by Fiona, there’s very little that surprises me,” I say dryly, even though that’s a bold faced lie, and I’m currently extremely surprised by how extremely cool he is. He laughs loudly, the same head back, mouth open gesture the Bunce prompted the other day.

“When we were younger I thought she was so cool and had the best taste in music,” he says, grinning. I make a face.

“Fiona has the worst taste in music,” I argue. “She thinks that Lou Reed is overplayed. I’ve heard her listening to Nine Inch Nails.”

Professor Hollow laughs again, even harder this time, and I feel like warm bubbles are floating through my body.

“Nine Inch Nails, really? She hasn’t changed at all,” he says with a grin, then flips his head just so, freeing the strands of sandy blonde hair that got trapped under his glasses. “I’ll be sure to give her hell for it at the conference.”

“Please do,” I say, looking down at my desk, and definitely not thinking about the hair flip.

Professor Hollow stands up and stretches slightly, then rubs his hands together and smiles at me. It’s crooked and lights up one side of his face.

“Well, I’m sure you have things to do, then, so I’ll let you go,” he says with that easy grin that looks like it could sink a ship. “I look forward to our study sessions.”

Me fucking too.

 

***

 

For some reason, it’s become extremely normal for Snow to drop out of the sky at random times.

He nearly takes out Dev during football practise, and another time he lands on the table in the dining hall during dinner. Much to Fiona’s delight, he hurtled onto the lawn just outside Professor Hollow’s classroom during their conference, and she got to watch him land in a rose bush. Once he landed in the moat, which I did not get to see, and was extremely upset about.

No one seems to know why he’s appearing all over campus, but everytime he does he just gets up, straightens his shirt, growls a little, and then runs off back toward the Wavering Wood. Clearly none of the teachers are too concerned about this, because no one even blinks when he comes slamming in out of thin air. The students all think it’s weird, but I guess everyone is used to Snow’s weirdness now, because it seems par for the course. Even his friends don’t really seem to care — last week I was in the library across from Gareth and Philippa Stainton when Snow crashed down on a table. His sword was out, and I have no idea how he managed not to impale himself.

“Shit!” he shouted into the silent library, then just rolled off the table and huffed his way out.

I looked up at Gareth, who just shrugged and asked me if I knew how long our French essay was supposed to be. Philippa just put her head in her hands and watched Snow go.

I haven’t managed to be that chill about it, though. It’s driving me fucking crazy. Maybe it’s because everything has me on edge lately. I feel like I’m on fire, sometimes, like anything is going to be the final thing that makes me snap. I’m always starving, and sometimes I fall asleep staring at Snow’s neck.

But mostly, I’m annoyed because Snow has the absolute worst timing.

I shouldn’t be surprised, honestly. The universe seems to like making me the butt of all its cosmic jokes, so of course Snow comes hurtling out of a hazy portal one day while I’m just lying in bed, thinking about David Bowie.

Or more accurately, about a David Bowie quote. It’s a famous one, actually: _“I always had a repulsive need to be something more than human. I felt very puny as a human. I thought, 'Fuck that. I want to be a superhuman.”_

That’s well and good for him, I suppose, but it’s a bit different when it actually comes true. Would he see the good in this? What would he have done if he was plagued by random and ominous hunger pangs, but suddenly had the ability to break a mug in his bare hand like I did at breakfast this morning? What would Bowie do if he had inexplicably good night vision and hearing suddenly?

Something cool, probably. He would embrace it. Tell everyone about it. Not sit in his bed and listen to Bauhaus’s _Bela Lugosi’s Dead_ and brood about it.

I’m just about determined to get up and pull on my football boots and go outside for practise when Snow gets spit out into the room, slams down on his bed, and bounces off onto the floor with a heavy crash.

“Shit,” he groans, and doesn’t move.

I stare at him from over the side of my bed. He’s so close now that I could reach out and flick his nose if I wanted to, but instead I just sneer. Though the idea of flicking his nose is now haunting me. I really want to do it. He’d go mental.

“Are you trying to bash out the last few brains you have?” I snarl, because he surprised me and also because I desperately want to know what the fuck is going on with him, but I would never ask.

“Sod off,” he says, then goes to sit up. He strains for a few moments and then he falls back to the ground with a loud huff. I’m not sure he can get up.

“No, by all means, keep at it,” I drawl. “It will make my family’s life so much easier if you accidentally hurl yourself into a wall and nog yourself to death.”

Snow stares at me.

“Your family seriously wants me dead?” he says, like this has never occurred to him before and he has no concept of the idea that we’re meant to be mortal enemies.

“Are you telling me that the Mage has never implied that if a dragon or whatever attacks, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t save me?”

He squints at me, his brows pulled together.

“No?” he says. “He tells me off about it, actually, any time I ask for a new roommate. He says we’re bound together and are supposed to watch after each other and be like brothers or some shit.”

“Really?” I sit up on my elbows. This is news to me. Both that the Mage is encouraging fraternal affection and also that Snow has apparently been asking for a room change for three years. But I know he’s telling the truth, because Snow doesn’t lie. He evades, but he doesn’t outright fabricate.

“Well, you know how it is,” I say, laying back down on my bed and staring at our ceiling. “Families are weird.”

“Hey, no, I don’t know that, thanks,” he mutters, straining to get up. He groans loudly and throws himself back to the floor. I wince a bit. I hadn’t meant to be so flippant about the orphan thing. I try to not give him shit about that, considering I know intimately how uncomfortable the dynamics of “my parent gave me up” are.

“I thought you and the Mage were cobbling out the world’s weirdest father-son relationship,” I say instead.

“Why does everyone think he’s my father?” Snow growls from the floor. “He’s just my guardian so he can check me in and out of centres for the school year.”

“Centres?” I ask, intrigued. Snow and I have literally never discussed anything about his life outside of Watford. Frankly, we’ve never really discussed anything at all, aside from _“did you open the window?”_ and _“no, I swear I didn’t spell your laptop closed, it must have done it itself.”_

“Care centres,” Snow says.

“You live in centres?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I assumed you had some foster family or something.”

“Nah, don’t get placed with families.”

There’s a shuffling noise from the ground and I peer over to see that Snow has appropriated my bookbag and shoved it under his head. He must be in a lot of pain because this is has all been remarkably candid for Snow, and I’m almost wondering how badly he’s been hitting himself in the brain. Where’s the kid who swore to me he was going to suss out my secrets? Where’s the boy who told me to fuck off? I want to ask him what he’s doing, how the hell he’s falling from the sky, and why he keeps doing it, but I don’t. That would verge on a level of friendliness we don’t have. But if he’s talking and telling me shit, I’m certainly not going to stop him.

“Why not?” I pry. “You’re a shining specimen of caucasian genetics, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t get placed with a nice family and a dog.”

There’s a long pause, and Bauhaus croons gently. Drunkenly, probably.

“I’ve always been too much trouble.”

I roll to my side and prop my chin over the side of the bed to study him. His curls are getting longer already, flopped over into one of his eyes, which are closed currently. His shirt is partially unbuttoned, his tie discarded, and he looks like a rumpled mess.

“What kind of trouble?”

He shrugs, then winces a bit.

“I dunno. Fighting. Magic. That kind of stuff.”

There’s a grin forming on my face, and I don’t bother to wipe it off, because I know it’s my Trouble grin, the one that makes Fiona shudder and tell me I should have been dropped in the Thames as a baby or left for the faeries.

“Snow,” I say slowly. “That’s the best kind of trouble.”

Snow scrunches his face and doesn’t say anything, and I decide our little bonding session has come to an end.

“Are you just going to lie on the floor and groan all day?” I ask, turning away from him.

“Not sure if I can move just yet,” he says with a wince. “Trust me, if I could, I would not still be here.”

Instead of replying, I roll back over on my back and lean up to the window, scroll through my iPod, and turn up _Starman_.

Snow groans.

“I hate this song,” he mutters.

I know he does. He hates David Bowie. He makes it extremely well known just how much he hates David Bowie. I turn it up louder. He glares at me.

“You’re a dick,” he says. I nod.

“And you’re a sad excuse for a human being and the worst mage I’ve ever seen,” I snap. “And you have awful music taste.”

I pick up my book and open to my last page, and Snow makes a kind of growling sound from the floor.

“You’re not even going to help me?” he asks indignantly. “I think I seriously hurt something.”

“Try wearing bubble wrap next time,” I say, and return to my book.

 

***

 

I’m in the middle of a study session with Bunce and Hollow when Snow crash lands on the ground outside our classroom.

“I should go take care of that,” Bunce says with a sigh, putting her notebook to the side and hurrying out. I watch her go, and when I turn back to Hollow, he has an amused look on his face.

“That kid is weird, isn’t he?” he says. I appreciate that Hollow is from the Old Families, because he acts like a real human being and actually says this shit, instead of acting like Snow is some magical Messiah. Because he’s right. Snow _is_ weird.

“You’ve no fucking idea,” I mutter under my breath, and I’m rewarded with a laugh. Sessions with Professor Hollow are weird, because he’s a professor, but he’s also so young, and seems to sometimes forget he’s a teacher. He curses when he drops things, and then gets flustered about it, and sometimes he slips out of his teacher voice when he gets excited. Bunce and I have sometimes started letting casual remarks or curses slip, and he doesn’t even blink, which is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced.

When Bunce finally rejoins us (almost fifteen minutes later) my curiosity cannot be contained anymore.

“What was that?” I ask. I’d never ask Snow what the hell was going on, but Bunce might be safe territory. Also, he literally just crashed our study session. Bunce just sighs.

“Simon found one of the three gates in the Wavering Wood, but he can’t get it to open because everytime he touches it, it blasts him somewhere else. We’re working on it,” she says, sounding extremely fatigued by this line of discussion.

I should have known it would be something like this. It’s both more and less interesting than I had hoped. I’m glad to know the truth of it, but now that the mystery is solved, the whole thing is substantially less amusing.

“Have you tried putting a leash on him?” I ask. Bunce sighs heavily, but I can see the corner of her mouth tilt up.

“He just needs to figure out how to get close enough to it without getting zapped. We’ve been doing research, but there doesn’t seem to be a way to open it.”

I stare at her.

“Have you considered that you might just need the key?”

“Son of a bitch!” Bunce shouts, slamming her book closed and grabbing at her notebook. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. Apparently I’ve said something genius.

Professor Hollow and my’s eyes meet over Bunce’s head, and I quickly look back down.

“So, I’m unsure if your parents—er, guardians told you,” Hollow says, closing his books and leaning back in his chair as he props one ankle up on his opposite knee, “but during the conferences I suggested some extended summer tutoring. Penny, your mum was all for it, but Baz, your aunt said you were going to be in New York?”

I look back up, focusing on the chalkboard behind his head and nod.

“Yeah, we’re making a whole trip of it. We’re going to go to Bowery and get depressed over CBGB,” I say, still trying to recover from my inexplicable inability to make eye contact with him. That’s weird, right?

He’s a professor.

He’s a he.

“What’s that stand for, anyway?” Bunce asks as she scribbles something.

“Country, Bluegrass, and Blue,” Hollow and I say at the same time.

“And Other Music For Uplifting Gormandisers,” Hollow adds with a grin.

“I don’t know what any of this means, and I’ve decided I don’t care,” Bunce replies.

“Okay,” Hollow says, leaning forward, all of his attention on me. It’s suffocating. “Okay, important question: are you more a Ramones or Misfits fan?”

“Talking Heads,” I say, swallowing. Not thinking about that first day with the sun shining through his shirt, because really, I loved them well before I met Hollow. “Or Television. They’re more lyrical, less noise.”

“Basil is a music snob,” Bunce says from beside me, not looking up from her book. “If it’s not David Bowie, he’s utterly uninterested. He only listens to pretentious men who sing like they have colds.” She sighs at pushes her book away, her face etched in annoyance. “It’s impossible to study outside in the spring because all you can hear is him playing the Velvet Underground over and over.”

I feel myself flush, and look back down at my desk. I’m embarrassed, but also secretly pleased that Bunce outed my music preferences.

“Merlin, I should have known,” Hollow says, sitting back and laughing. His eyes crinkle and he scrunches up his nose in a way that should look like he’s mocking me, but doesn’t at all. “You probably listen to The Smiths and find them funny, don’t you?”

Guilty.

Bunce snorts. “Have you seen him? He is a Smiths song.”

This is simultaneously the best and worst moment of my entire life, and I can tell that I’m blushing. I’m pale as shit, but I’m still blushing.

“Do you listen to Pulp?” he asks, his brown eyes boring into me. I shake my head and his face lights up. “Oh, you’d love them. Stay after class next time, I think I’ve got a CD somewhere.”

My throat might be constricting as I nod.

“What about you, Penny? Are you a snob?” he asks, turning his attention off of me. Bunce rolls her eyes.

“I don’t care,” she says, and turns back to her book.

“Alright then,” Hollow says, looking back up at me and grinning, clearly trying to let me in on the immense amusement he’s taking from this. The index finger of one of his thin hands taps at the desk in front of him, and he looks completely at ease. His eyes flick off of me and onto the clock on the wall and go wide behind his large glasses. “Oh, Crowley, look at the time,” he says, suddenly remembering that he’s our professor. “It’s getting late. Basil, you’re free to go, Penny, I wanted to go over something in your paper with you.”

I shoot up out of my seat faster than is needed, and then try to walk out of the room slowly and calmly, like my heart isn’t clenching itself and my stomach isn’t about to burst and like I’m not light headed.

I wait until I’m on the far side of the building before I stop, lean against the wall, and close my eyes. I take a deep, shuddering breath and try to push back the wave of emotions that are washing over me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, then slam my head back into the wall. “Fuck!”

Down the corridor, I hear a heavy thud, a crash, and then the sound of Snow’s strained voice floating up the hallway.

“Fuck.”

 

***

 

“Why haven’t we messed with the Mage yet?” Dev asks as he passes me the ball. We’re on the pitch — just he, Niall and I — and I pass it back to him. It’s a Wednesday, and it’s blissfully sunny, and despite the fact that it’s December and freezing, I’ve dragged us out to play football. I’m determined to get as much sun exposure as I possibly can because, to quote Fiona, puberty is starting to hit me like a bitch and I’ve no idea how long until the sun sensitivity part of my Bela Lugosi problem kicks in.

I’m not thinking about that, though.

“I’ve been busy,” I say. Niall runs up and steals the ball and tries to do a complicated foot routine, but fails.

“Me too. Why did I take maths?” he complains. Dev knicks the ball and bounces it on his knee.

“Because we’re all going to go to Oxford together and you can’t get in on family name,” Dev says, then grunts as Niall elbows him in the gut. He goes down hard, landing on the green grass, and Niall falls on top of him. I don’t join.

“We should do something though. Next term, when we get back. We should plan over Christmas,” Dev says from his perch on top of Niall. I sit down next to them and stretch my legs out. Honestly, he’s right. We should. But I’ve been so focused on doing my extra schoolwork and holding myself back physically during practises and not thinking about blood and not thinking about boys that there’s barely been space in my brain for the Mage. It also helps that he hasn’t been around school hardly at all this term.

“We should set a chimera loose in his office,” Niall says, and yawns. “My gran was telling me about them this summer. My grandfather used to work with Dark Creature removal, and we’ve all these texts about them and how to summon them. We could call one up and maybe it would off him.”

Dev and look at each other.

“Kelly…” Dev starts, then pauses. “That is the most evil, mean spirited thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m so proud,” I say, putting a mocking hand over my heart. Dev throws his arm over my shoulder.

“We’ve raised him well,” he says, equally serious.

“You two are fucking pricks,” Niall grumbles, rolling over to push himself up and steal the ball.

We jolt as an explosion rips through the air, and the ground shakes a bit, and a thin plume of smoke goes up from the woods.

Dev and I are on our feet immediately, the three of us staring.

“Should we—” Niall starts, but Dev grabs his arm.

“It’s Snow,” I say. It has to be Snow. Where there’s smoke, there’s always a Simon.

“Do we—”

Screams ring out through the air, feminine screams, and that’s all it takes before the three of us go running, our football abandoned.

I’ve never been in the Wavering Wood before, and I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s not hard to follow the trail of destruction and smoke creeping up through the trees. We skid to a halt in a clearing. It looks like a bomb went off in here; trees are scattered around, the underbrush is burning, a thick smoke hangs in the air and bits of dirt and debris have been shot everywhere.

But I don’t think Snow did this. I can’t smell his magic.

I hear the screaming again, definitely female this time, and I narrow my eyes to see a crumpled form laying near a huge, gaping hole in the ground, from which a pulsing golden glow is emanating.

“Wellbelove?” I shout, coughing and covering my mouth to keep the smoke out. I head toward her, Dev and Niall trailing behind me. Dev darts up past me to get to Wellbelove first, and Niall looks terrified, his eyes huge and bulbous. I think he may be shaking.

Wellbelove looks up at us, tear tracks making pretty, delicate lines down the soot on her face. Her hair is fanned out around her like a halo, like gravity doesn’t fully work this close to the glowing chasm in the ground. She’s bleeding a bit from a scrape on her hand, and she’s sitting next to a rock covered in blood.

Why is it always blood?

“The gate closed behind them, I couldn’t follow!” she cries, her voice raspy. She looks past Dev and her eyes lock on me. “I tried to open it like he did, but it wouldn’t work! It wouldn’t open for me!” she holds up her hand and for the first time I see that it’s not a scrape on her hand, but a shallow, self-inflicted cut.

I physically flinch away but she reaches for me, grabbing at me.

“You try,” she says. Begs. “Bring them back!”

I shake my head and try to back away.

“I don’t know what they did, but I’m not bleeding on a rock,” I tell her, trying to sound calm, even though I’m freaking out because there’s blood and fire and a giant gaping hole in the fucking ground. “We need to get you out of here, we need to get help.”

“Maybe the Mage can get it open—” Niall starts

“He can’t!” Wellbelove says. She’s loud, but she’s not screaming, and even her crying is muted and delicate. “He couldn’t get it open, that’s why Simon was trying. He said there might be a weapon there, something to take down the Humdrum. I—”

“Agatha, you have to get out of here,” I start again, moving for her, but she pushes me away.

“Don’t tell me what I have to do,” she snaps, her hand pushing back against my face. It’s an innocent motion. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but the blood from her hands smears across my mouth and lick at my lips before I fully know what I’m doing.

I jolt backward, more surprised by my own instinctual reaction than her movement, my eyes wide. I can still taste her blood on my tongue, the tangy, metallic scent of it filling my senses and sending a hollow rumble of hunger through my stomach.

“We have to leave,” I say quietly, wiping the rest of her blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. “You have to come with us, Wellbelove, and we have to get teachers.”

“I’m staying here until Simon comes back. He and Penny—”

“Went headfirst into a hell gate without looking back, and you’re not going to rescue them by sitting here and pouting,” I snap. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide and surprised. Clearly no one speaks to her like this.

“Come on,” Dev says softly, reaching out a hand to help her up. “Come on, let’s get out of here. They’ll be back soon. The Mage will get them back.”

She lets Niall pull her to her feet and we unsteadily make our way back out of the Wavering Wood, away from the smoke and the fire and the blood.

Though I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get away from the blood. Not now.

 

***

 

They’re not back soon.

Bunce and Snow have been gone for over four weeks, and no one really knows if they’re coming back.

They missed Christmas, and the New Year, and when we all filed back into school for the start of the new term, their absence hit everyone like a brick wall. Somehow Snow’s adventures are usually wacky and whimsical, but missing Christmas puts an uncomfortable edge on everything.

Fiona and I were awkward the whole break, because I was tense and twitchy, and we ended up spending a week with Malcolm and Daphne. She kept telling them I’m just starting to get moody, which is fine, because it let me slip off and sit by myself for a bit. I kept finding myself in Mordelia’s nursery, sitting and playing songs for her. For a baby, she seems to have decent music taste, and also she has the added benefit of not being able to talk, and as a result doesn’t ask my questions or tell me to turn off _Angst In My Pants,_ which I’ve been playing nonstop.

The Mage has been off campus the entire time, doing Merlin-knows what while his heir is apparently trapped in some kind of other dimension. Students are warned to stay away from the Wavering Wood and they’ve begun pulling the drawbridge up at night, to stop people from going out to the woods after hours.

By people I’m pretty sure they just mean me.

I don’t know why I do it. It’s not like I actually expect Snow to just come hurtling out of the sky and be totally fine. He and Bunce have been gone for a month. It’s going to take something cataclysmic to get them back, and they’re probably not going to be in great shape.

I should be using this time to enjoy the solitude of my room. I can fall asleep every night to my own music and watch movies on my laptop without using headphones. It rained the entire weekend after they first disappeared, and I sat in my bed in my pyjamas eating Walkers and watching the _Stop Making Sense_ tour film, because if anyone can make me feel it’s David Byrne, and instead of enjoying it like I always do, I ended up curled on the window seat, listening to The Smiths’s _Hatful of Hollow_ and trying not to think about the cramps that were shooting their way through my stomach.

I also watched _The Exorcist_ twice that weekend, which kind of made me feel better.

I started going out to the Woods after that as a way to distract myself. I wasn’t looking for Snow; I was just trying to get away from the hunger that seemed to be following me. Passing by the gate and checking to see if it had spit anything out was just a side effect. Sometimes I’d sit on the rock that Wellbelove bled on and look at it for a bit, or watch the trees beyond, and listen to the squirrels and the rabbits and consider that it might not be too hard to catch one, probably, and drain it. It’s no different than eating meat for dinner, I’d just be more involved in my food preparation.

But I never do.

I just swallow the hunger and make my way back through the dark forest without a light and creep back into my room and listen to Nico and try to fall asleep even though my stomach is coming alive and growing claws and tearing itself apart, and there’s a numbing pressure building in my jaw that I don’t want to think about.

It’s the fourth weekend after they’ve left, about to start our third week back at school, and on the way to breakfast I seriously consider bashing my head against the side of a brick wall and just knocking out all my teeth, because then that might stop the jaw pain, right? Somehow I manage not to, and drag myself I sit down next to Dev and nod at him as I pour myself tea and take a sip. The heat helps, actually, but as soon as it cools, my jaw is pulsing again, tapping out a beat of misery and despair.

“You do it,” Dev whispers, and Niall shakes his head.

“Why would I? You’re the one in love with her.”

“What are you on about?” I snap, then wince. Moving my mouth to talk hurts.

“Dev wants to ask Agatha how she’s doing, but is too big of a pussy to actually do it,” Niall mutters, taking a sip of tea. He’s off, not as cheery as he normally is. We all are, to be honest. Somehow Watford without Snow crashing around feels strange and foreign, and it’s set us all on edge. I don’t like it.

I sigh heavily and turn in my chair.

“Wellbelove,” I call across the dining hall. A few heads go up, including hers. She’s sitting alone at her table, staring into her tea. “Come over here and eat with us,” I say. She blinks at me several times, then grabs her tea, gracefully stands up, and crosses over to our table. She sits down across from me, next to Dev, and smiles.

“Thanks, Basil,” she says sweetly.

“Merlin’s sake, just call me Baz,” I snap back. “We’re there, we’ve hit that point.”

She nods and drinks her tea, then looks up at me over the rim, her brown eyes wide and unsure.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?”

“Sure,” I say, because saying much else seems intolerable. “You?”

She stares back at the table, and her lip starts to tremble.

“Awful. Simon was supposed to come to mine for Christmas,” she nearly whispers. “Dad had Coven members over every day, and they kept making me tell them what happened…” She shakes her head, and the lip wobble stops, and she straightens up. “It’ll be fine, though. He can come next Christmas, when this is all sorted.”

She smiles, and my eyes go to her throat.

This was a bad idea. Just seeing her this close makes me think of the woods, and the taste of her blood on my lips, and the gnawing hunger that’s trying to rip me into shreds. My jaw pulses and my stomach stabs itself and my head pounds, and I’m full of this endless, anxious energy that’s making me want to fling myself off a cliff. It’s like that Talking Heads song. _Can’t sleep cuz my head’s on fire/ don’t touch me I’m a real live wire_.

That’s me. That’s me in a nutshell.

Dev is asking her about French and Niall is playing with his eggs and all I can think about is how I’m not allowed to hate Wellbelove because none of this is her fault but I honestly really, really hate Wellbelove and I think I’m going to pass out.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter, pushing up from the table, grabbing my jacket, and making my way out of the dining hall. I shrug my jacket on and pull it closer. It’s getting way too snug on me. By next winter it’s absolutely not going to fit any longer, which is just another thing to add to the pile of things I’m currently depressed about.

Hunching my shoulders against the wind I head across the drawbridge, past the pitch, and toward the Wavering Wood, my feet taking me along the familiar path toward the clearing where the gate is.

For once, I’m not alone.

The other figure in the clearing stands up when I appear, and I take a step back. I’ve never talked to the eldest Bunce before. He’s two years ahead of us and he’s always around, always doing something, usually trailing after the Mage. I’ve written him off as someone not really worth notice, to be honest.

But he was sitting on the rock, his long dark hair curling around his collar, his eyes bloodshot, and he looks… _sad_.

“What are you doing here?” he says, staring.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” I answer, clenching my fist to combat the pain in my jaw as I speak. “Apologies.” I go to back out and leave, but the big Bunce — Prius? Premal? — makes a grunt.

“Do you know how to get them back?”

I stare at him.

“No? I figured that’s the Mage’s issue. Isn’t that what he’s off doing?”

“Yes,” Bunce snaps, sticking his chin up in the air. “He’s looking. He thinks… that maybe time is different where they are. That it hasn’t been as long.” He makes eye contact with me. “He’s sure they’re alright.”

It sounds more like he’s reassuring himself than me, and anyway, the Mage’s assumptions don’t hold any weight in my mind, so I just nod.

“Right,” I say. “Well. That’s good.”

He sits down on the rock again and rummages in his pocket for something and pulls out what looks like a cigarette. I startle. I didn’t know any of the Bunces smoked. His sister seems like the type to give a never-ending lecture about it, and I’m somewhat impressed by this small act of rebellion from someone who I had assumed was lodged thoroughly up the Mage’s ass.

Then the smell hits me and I realise it’s not a cigarette.

Bunce meets my eyes and gives me a hard expression.

“I’ve heard about the shit you get up to, so I know you’re not going to say anything, right?”

I stare at him for a long moment, then walk over.

“Hand it over,” I say, taking a seat on the rock beside him. It’s a reckless, impulsive decision, but I’m about to vibrate out of my skin right now. I know that Fiona has done this before, when things got bad and too much and her hands would start to shake. I think the fire building inside my body counts as bad and too much.

“What?” he sputters. “No, you’re like 10.”

“I’m thirteen,” I snap, “and I could get you kicked out, missing sister or no. So pass it over.”

He stares at me like I’ve just tilted the world upside down, then shrugs.

“Whatever, kid,” he says, handing over the joint. “Don’t breathe too deep.”

I give him the most condescending look I can possibly muster, close my fingers around the thin, sloppily rolled blunt, and inhale.

All the smoke comes spitting out as I cough and sputter, and Bunce slaps me on the back.

“I said don’t breathe too deep, Merlin,” he mutters, but I shake him off, steady my breathing, and try again. I only cough a little this time, and I hold the smoke in, letting it travel down my lungs and nestle warm in my chest, the heat mixing with the comfortable, ever present embers of my magic, and then I exhale a long, slow cloud of smoke.

“Shit,” Bunce says, taking the joint back from me. “You catch on fast.”

“Pitches are quick learners,” I say, then close my eyes. The pain in my jaw is quieting down to a soft buzz, and the talons ripping my stomach apart settle a bit, and I feel like a large, heavy blanket has started to drift down on top of me.

Bunce takes another inhale, and after some time passes it back to me and I do the same, and we sit there in silence. I kick my long legs out in front of me and stare at the threads on my brogues and wonder whether my fangs will be out all the time and whether I’ll still be able to eat normal food.

I do what I haven’t had the courage to do yet, and poke at my eyeteeth with my tongue, exploring around the area. Everything feels the same, but there’s a small bump in my gums, just above each tooth and when I press on them it hurts a bit.

“They’ll be alright,” Bunce says, suddenly from my side, and I think he’s talking about my fangs for a moment.

“What?” I say, panicked.

“Penny and Simon. They’ll be alright. The Mage will get them back,” he says, nodding his head and taking another quick hit. I scoff.

“No he won’t,” I say. “When has the Mage ever done anything?”

I think weed makes me blunt. Er. Blunter.

“So you’re telling me you think they’re just stuck there?” Bunce says, his eyes wide. I’m too tired for this argument. “That’s completely—”

“You know I’m right,” I say, cutting over him. “The Mage is useless. Snow will end up being the one to get them back. You’ll see.”

“Why do you think a thirteen year old boy is better equipped to handle this than the _Mage_?”

I stare at him, genuinely surprised.

“Because he’s Simon Snow,” I say. He’s impossible. He does impossible things all the time and he blasts his way through problems, but by Merlin, he makes things _happen_ , just by squinting like an idiot and willing them into existence. He burns hot and intense like the fucking sun and turns all his energy on something until it combusts. How can Bunce possibly not know this?

He’s staring at me suspiciously, like he’s just now starting to wonder why Snow’s roommate and greatest enemy is moping around in the woods, and I straighten up.

“Do you have any more?” I ask, pointing at the last, smoking nub of his joint.

“Yeah, but people typically pay for it,” he says, flicking the nub into some far off trees. I frown. He didn’t even wait for it to go out. He has no concept of fire safety.

Instead of lecturing him I dig around in my jacket and pull out a wad.

“Here’s...” I parse through the contents of my pocket, “twenty quid, a mint aero bar, and a key to the kitchens.”

I don’t mention why or how I got the key, but Dev, Niall and I each have a copy, and it’s been crucial to keeping us well stocked in Walkers for the past year and a half.

“Why not,” Bunce mutters, digging in his pocket and coming out with a plastic bag.

“Papers?” I ask, feeling extremely fucking cool.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, shaking his head, before digging into his pockets again. He pulls them out and shoves them into the bag, then hands it to me.

“Cheers,” I say, putting the bag in my pocket and slowly getting to my feet. My head feels a bit heavy, but my jaw and gums don’t hurt. Nothing hurts. I feel _normal_ for the first time in forever. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Snow will come through. The jammy bastard always does.”

 

***

 

The problem with weed is that it’s only a temporary solution. Once I’m sober again, the pain comes slamming back, the aching hunger worse before, and I’m starving _and_ tired _and_ feel all wrung out and squeezed dry and I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.

I’ve set rules, obviously, because I’m not going to just be someone who spends their life high as shit. I don’t have time for that, and I have things to do, and anyway, I’m treating it all as a pain management device and not a form of recreation. _Trainspotting_ is my favourite movie but I have no intention of recreating it.

No smoking in the mornings or before class, because I refuse to be distracted during my lessons, and also even my mother’s name might not protect me from Possibelf if I show up high. Also, the stoned genius slacking off in class is so cliche and overplayed.

No sharing with anyone. Niall smelled it on me once, and he nearly pissed himself, but I refused to answer his questions and deliberately avoided Dev’s disapproving glare. It’s not for fun, and it’s not to be rebellious. It’s to keep me from tearing all my teeth out, one at a time, and then gorging myself like a tick on the nearest student.

I can only do it in the Wavering Wood or in my room, because both areas are safe from suspicion. Even though he’s been gone for weeks, the room and all our fabric still smells like Snow’s magic — a cloying, woodsy smell that mixes in with the weed and evens out into something just a bit muskier that Snow’s natural scent. I don’t think anyone but me would know the difference, to be honest. Well, and Snow. But he’s not here right now, is he?

I can only do it before bed (to help me sleep) and only if I really, truly need it, because the come down is sometimes worse than the pain, and I’ve decided that once I kill off this bag, I’m not buying more. I’m not going to line Bunce’s pockets and I’m not going to throw my money after drugs, because while that might be extremely punk, that is not very Pitch.

There’s one other benefit of the weed, though.

It made me brave enough to pull out The Box.

I’d kind of thought that I would go and get The Box and sort through it when everything was going well in my life, and I felt happy and solid enough to look through it and handle whatever awful emotions were going to come hurtling at me out of the dust bunnies. But instead I’m high and bored and hungry and weirdly depressed while listening to Pulp (who I actually really love, Hollow was right) when I pull it out, tear the top off, and stare down into a neat row of records. There’s only a few books in here — spell books, I can tell from the covers — and the rest are all vinyl.

I run my fingers along the edges gently and breathe in the smell of old paper and dust and that sharp, musty smell that comes off of old records, and I pick the first one up carefully, pulling my joint out of my mouth and shoving it roughly into an empty tea cup to make sure that the ashes and smoke wouldn’t get anywhere near the vinyl.

As gently as possible I pull it from its cover and place it on my record player. It’s a Billy Joel album — _The Stranger_ — and I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of these songs. The first track starts with a bang, and I sit back against my bed and listen to it, my eyes closed. I cycle through the first few tracks, and I’ve just hit a song I recognise when there’s a knock on the door. I jump, startled, and curse as I shove it box of records back under my bed, then dive for the weed.

“I can hear your music, I know you’re in there!” comes a loud voice on the other side of the door and my body relaxes immediately. Fiona. It’s just Fiona.

And then I panic again and throw the teacup with the joint out the window, waving my arms around to disperse some of the non-existent smoke as I head toward the door and pull it open.

“What took so long?” Fiona says, elbowing past me and into the room. “Were you hiding your porn?”

I shift awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her, glancing at my open desk drawer, where the corner of Bunce’s bag is sticking out. I wish I knew a spell to make a room smell better.

“Oh, I went out to dinner with Charlie, we just got back,” Fi says, crossing the room and flinging herself down on Snow’s bed.

“Charlie?” I ask, tilting my head. “Oh. You mean — uh, Professor Hollow?”

Fiona snorts and turns onto her stomach.

“Yeah, Merlin it’s weird to think of him as a professor. The shit he used to do while we were in school,” she says, trailing off as she bends her head over to peek under Snow’s bed. Finding nothing, she runs her hands along the underside of his mattress.

“What are you doing?” I ask, still completely thrown by the idea that Fiona was just on a date with my professor. Maybe it wasn’t a date though. Maybe just dinner with old friends? There’s an anxious tingling in my stomach and in my hands and I feel the need to shift from side to side.

“Looking for Snow’s secrets,” she responds, picking up his pillow and poking at it.

“Why were you with Professor Hollow?” I ask, trying to pitch my voice normal. I’m squirming. I’m squirming like Snow.

“Oh, we’ve been on a few dates since your conference,” Fiona says, pushing herself from the bed and heading toward Snow’s desk. She starts opening drawers, and I want to shout at her to stop as a tidal wave of strange, hot, flaring annoyance whips through me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“You’re dating Hollow? Why are you dating Hollow?” I ask, way, way too loud. Why would she date him? He’s my professor. And it’s just… wrong. Fiona pauses.

“Because I want to? Didn’t know I needed to ask permission,” she says, turning and crossing her arms. “It’s not like you’re ever going to bump into him in the morning at home or something. Come on, give me some credit.” She turns and pulls open another drawer, pokes through it, and shoves it closed again with a sigh.

“Crowley, Snow is a boring kid,” she says, crossing toward his wardrobe. I have to resist the urge to throw myself in front of it and shout her out of the room. It’s not that big of a deal if she’s dating Hollow. Why should I care?

“Stop going through his things,” I snap. Fi raises an eyebrow.

“Why? He’s not here.”

“Exactly!” I say. “He’s not here, so stop taking advantage of it and invading his privacy. Crowley, how would you like it if you were sucked into some hell dimension and the Mage came over and starting going through your fucking sock drawer?”

“Woah, woah,” Fiona says, throwing her hands up in the air. “What the fuck was that? Since when do you care about Snow? I figured you’d be throwing parties now that he’s offed.”

“He’s not dead, he’s just missing,” I say, irritably. “He’ll be back.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Fiona says. “It certainly solves our problems if he doesn’t come back, though.”

“Why do you want him dead?” I say, crossing my arms and leaning back against the wall. I’m trying to act natural but also trying to hold myself up because I feel like slouching down and melting into the floor. “He’s just a kid, Fiona. Just a stupid kid.”

“He’s the _Chosen One_ ,” Fiona says, her voice getting heated. “He could blow us all off the map. Crowley, Baz, what the fuck is this, you hate him.”

“I do hate him!” I shout back. I have no idea why I’m shouting, except that all of this is moving far too fast and Fiona shouldn’t be here, dating _Charlie_ , and Snow _should_ be here, but he’s not, and I’m here in front of my aunt, high as shit because I’ve been self medicating my Bela Lugosi problem. “I do hate him, but he doesn’t deserve to die! He’s just… a kid who doesn’t know better, and has been kicked around and pointed in a direction and told to follow it, and he may be the most stupid person I’ve ever met, but he’s just trying his best, and he shouldn’t _die_ for that.”

“When the fuck did you go gay for the Chosen One?” Fiona snaps, her eyes wide in confusion and disgust.

I jolt like I’ve been slapped.

My face drains of blood and I feel my skin turning to ice, and my chest starting to compress, because I’ve never said that word, I’ve never even thought that word, and —

She’s just cut straight to the heart of it, hasn’t she? This roiling in my gut and the revulsion over _Charlie_ and it’s like she looked right through me and saw Snow’s blood smeared cheek and the mole under his right eye and the way I can’t seem to unlink him in my mind from _hunger_.

She’s cut straight to it, and she’s thrown it in my face as an accusation, out of disgust.

I never thought I’d see disgust from her. Not over this. I may never have thought the word, but somewhere, deep down, Fiona was never an aspect of this I was worried about.

“I’m—” I start. I’m shaking. I’m livid. “It’s not—”

I shut down my face and wipe my expression.

“That was a shitty fucking thing to say,” I say instead, and Fiona just stares at me. I think she’s about to apologise, but then I watch her face morph, watch her eyes narrow, and she approaches me suddenly, faster than I could have ever expected and grabs me by the collar. She hauls me in and makes direct eye contact and sniffs at me, then shoves me back with a sound of disgust.

“Are you fucking high? Is that what this is about, you’re _high?”_ she shouts.

“Why would you care?” I snap back, wrapping my arms around myself. “It’s not like you have any room to talk.”

“I’m an adult,” she hisses, her eyes narrowed. “And you are a child. I can’t believe you’re _high_. Where did you even get it? When did this start?”

“Maybe I got it from you,” I snap back. “It’s not like you lock the bottom kitchen drawer.”

Fiona reels back. I don’t know why I said that, I would never, ever do that. I’d never steal drugs from her.

She turns, running her hand over her mouth, and she’s clearly trying to pull herself back together. We’ve never fought like this, never, and neither of us know what to do. I don’t want to be fighting. I don’t want to be yelling, but that sharp lance of pain and hurt is still pulsing through me, her words hanging like an open wound in my chest.

_When the fuck did you go gay?_

There’s a noise from the corner that sounds like a gasp, or a sob, or something, and then there’s an awful screeching sound and Fiona is turning back to me, holding up the Billy Joel record.

“Where did you get this?” Her voice is so low she’s almost whispering.

“Malcolm gave it to me,” I say. “Along with a few others.”

“Malcolm had this? When did he give it to you?”

“Last year after the wedding,” I answer, my voice strained.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Do you know how long I — I just assumed that—” she stops, drops the record to her side and stares at me. “What else are you keeping from me?”

Hot, syrupy shame washes through me. I’m keeping a lot from her, mainly the Bela Lugosi problem. I’ve always promised to tell her as soon as there’s any change, except I didn’t. And now everything is too muddled up and I’m too angry and I’m realising with a searing, needling sensation like pinpricks on my skin, that I’m not sure if I trust her reaction.

_When the fuck did you go gay?_

“Why didn’t you tell me about Charlie?” I snap.

“Oh no, boyo,” Fiona hisses. “We are not doing this. We are not diverting from the fact that you have been sneaking around and stealing and doing fucking _drugs,_ Basilton. And defending the Chosen One? It’s like I don’t even know you.” She shakes her head and laughs sharply. “I don’t know who you are, but this is not the kid I raised. Your mother would be so disappointed in you right now.”

Something ugly in me snaps. Something dark and heavy, something strong and starving.

“Get out,” I say between clenched teeth. “Get the fuck out.”

“Oh trust me, I’m fucking going,” she says, laughing. It’s an awful laugh. “And, by the way, if you think New York is still happening, you’re wrong. Druggies don’t get vacations.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, Fi,” I snarl, advancing. “I haven’t done anything half as bad as you have, and you’re shitting your pants because you’re realising what an awful role model you’ve been. And you’re only pissed at me because I don’t want to kill my roommate. What kind of person does that make you? You raised me, Fi, you raised a kid, and you want to kill another one? I thought I was supposed to be the monster here.”

“Monster?” Fi says, her eyes shining bright, then dulling. “Oh, Baz.” She deflates. “That’s not—”

“No,” I hiss. “Get out.”

“Baz, I’m not—”

“Get the fuck out!” I scream, my voice breaking, cracking, sounding hoarse on the other end. She goes still.

She looks terrified of me.

We’re silent, each breathing heavily, each staring the other down, wondering who will crack first.

It won’t be me. After everything, this won’t be what breaks me.

Fiona gives up quicker than I expect.

“I’ll see you at home,” she says quietly, opening the door. I haven’t moved from my rigid stance.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I snarl back, just to see her flinch. I expect her to question me, to stand her ground in the doorway and go back in for round three, but instead she just squares her shoulders steps out the door, then closes it shut behind her.

My mouth feels like it’s on fire, pain radiating through my jaw, down my neck, ringing down my spine, and I can tell from the pressure in my mouth what just happened.

My fangs finally came in.

I can feel them with my tongue, pressing into my cheek and my lip and filling my mouth. I poke at them again and there’s an odd popping feeling and then they’re gone. Retracted back up into my fucking skull.

I slide down to the ground and stare at the closed door. I want to cry, but my head is swimming and my adrenaline is pumping and the weed is starting to wear off and I’m so, so fucking tired. I reach up, pull the blanket off of Snow’s bed, wrap it around myself, and fall asleep on the floor in front of the open window.

 

***

 

I run out of weed a week later, and I’m high off my last blunt when I go to my extra study session with Hollow. The pain in my jaw has stopped, but the aching hunger hasn’t (and now sometimes I’m physically _shaking_ with hunger), and I’ve noticed that now my fucking fangs like to pop when I eat. The weed sometimes stops it, though.

So I’ve been high a lot.

These sessions with Hollow have been making Bunce and Snow’s absence even more gaping and hard to ignore, but I’ve been enjoying them, even with everything that’s been going on. We spend half the time talking and joking around, and he’s started putting on music in the background. A couple of times he’s even told me to bring my own, and so we’ll debate whether Charles Dickens has the sustaining power for a spell while listening to Nick Cave (my choice) or Fugazi (his choice).

Not today.

Things are tense and awkward and hanging heavy in the air between us as we run through my reading assignment from last session. Even through the haze I’m existing in, there’s a sharp current of anger that’s tingeing all my words, and I know he can pick up on it, but he’s deliberately pretending it’s not there.

I’m not angry at him, though. I was, at first. For dating Fiona. For being involved with her this whole time while we were sharing music and books and sitting on the floor of his classroom discussing the fall of the Roman Empire.

But that faded out pretty quickly. Now I’m just angry at myself.

I never would have called it a crush. Never. Somewhere, deep down, I knew that’s what it was; the tight feeling in my throat and the need to please and the preening when I got attention. But I would have never realised it if Fiona hadn’t come along and blindsided me with one word, and now all my truths have been knocked free, and I feel like a massive fucking idiot.

I’m humiliated. Not for being gay. But for getting wrapped up in this idea and this attention. It’s pathetic. It’s impossible. He’s a teacher, and he’s dating my aunt, and I feel like the world’s biggest fucking numpty, and now the idea of these study sessions — especially without Bunce as a buffer — feels unbearable.

Hollow is dancing around something, I can tell, and I’m terrified he’s going to ask me about what happened with Fiona, or try to pass on some message from her or something, so when he finally does speak, it catches me off guard.

“Have you...heard from your aunt lately?” he says delicately. I sigh. I’m too tired and too high for this.

“I know you’re dating,” I say. “And no, I haven’t, as you would know.”

Hollow actually startles when I say that, and peers at me, confused. He looks a bit like a startled owl.

“Uh, no,” he says. “She broke up with me last week, and I just…” he trails off, sounding very unsure, and I hate all of this. He’s a grown fucking man, not a teenage boy. I don’t care about his relationship issues. “I guess I don’t know why.”

I sigh so deeply that it reverberates throughout my entire body.

“Because she’s pulling a classic Pitch, wherein she’s angry at someone else and is taking it out on you.”

He blinks.

“Who is she angry with?”

“Three guesses,” I say, rolling my eyes. His face scrunches up into a mask of confusion, his thick eyebrows furrowed. He’s a shockingly beautiful man and I hate it.

“Why is she angry at you?”

My head is heavy and I’m starving and I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to be having this conversation, and I kind of hate him, because he’s supposed to be a professor and he’s being wildly casual with me, and also I’m a teenage gay vampire and the absolute ludicrousness of this is only now starting to hit me.

“Because I’m gay,” I sneer, and let the word hang there. In an awful, ironic way, it seems fitting that he’s the first person I come out to.

It’s out. No going back. I realise, belatedly, that there’s a chance he might tell Fiona this, but I don’t care. Fuck her. Let her realise just how badly she’s cocked this all up.

“What?” he says. He’s actually surprised. I didn’t think people would be surprised to find out. “No, Fiona would never. Seriously, especially Fiona, she absolutely wouldn’t—”

“Look,” I say, slamming my book closed and standing up. “Just because you used to get high and hook up with my aunt doesn’t mean you know anything about my family. I’m sorry your relationship didn’t work out, but really, she’s not worth your time.”

I shove my books into my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

“See you next week, _professor_ ,” I snarl, and stalk out the door.

 

***

 

When Snow comes back, I almost don’t notice.

I’m a bit distracted, seeing as I’m curled in my bed under my covers, shaking like a rat-sized dog and sweating and near tears and fairly certain I’m about to die. I’d love to die, actually. Just close my eyes and drift away and then I wouldn’t hurt so badly and I wouldn’t feel nauseated and I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. No more fangs, no more hunger, no more splitting fucking headache, no more fighting with Fiona.

I’m in the middle of one of these thoughts when the door opens and the room suddenly smells like blood and smoke, and I have to shove my fist into my mouth in the hopes that my fangs won’t pop at the smell.

There’s a shuffling noise behind me and a small grunt and then all the noise stops and—

“Baz?”

It’s Snow. I expected to be surprised or relieved when he came back, but I don’t really feel anything. I guess I never doubted he wouldn’t show back up, like a bad penny you can’t get rid of.

“Welcome back,” I mutter. My voice is hoarse and sounds awful, and I shove my head back into my pillows and curse every god above and below that Snow is here to see me like this.

“Shit, are you okay? You sound awful,” he says, his voice suddenly much closer. I roll a little bit and squint one eye open against the bright light of the room. He looks… good. A bit covered in ash. He has some mud and twigs in his hair, and a small cut on his lip, but he doesn’t look like he’s been in hell for several months. He’s still got his sword out, and he tosses it unceremoniously onto his bed and bends down toward me.

“Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” I croak. “Did you enjoy your holiday?”

“Holiday? What? I—” he squints at me again. “Seriously, are you okay? You don’t look okay. Do I need to get someone?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, and pull my blanket up closer. “I’ve simply been overcome with joy at your heroic return. Bunce?”

“She’s fine. We didn’t realise how long we’d been gone. Can I get you something?”

“Solitude would be nice,” I sneer, and close my eyes again. “I’m gutted you’re back. I was hoping to have no roommate next year.”

“What’s wrong with you?” There’s a heavy note of suspicion in his voice, but also something else that I can’t begin to place.

“You,” I say. “Always you.”

“Stop being a dick,” he huffs. “Should someone call your aunt? You look like you’re about to drop dead.”

“Go away,” I snarl. Not really. I basically whisper it. “Please leave me alone.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and then I hear rustling again, and then feel a sudden weight on top of me as Snow chucks his blanket on top of my bed. I’m hit with a blast of cold air as he pulls the curtains back, and then hear the slam as he closes the window.

“It’s winter, why was this open?”

I don’t tell him that I’d kept it open to diffuse the smell of weed, and then I’d gotten too tired to close it, and then I stopped being able to tell what was normal cold and what was unusual cold, and I definitely do not tell him that it’s Sunday and I haven’t been out of my bed for more than a moment since Friday night.

“Please go away,” I repeat. My teeth are nearly chattering.

There’s a scratching noise at my bedside table and then a dull electric _pop_ and it takes me a moment to realise what I’m hearing until suddenly _Starman_ is playing softly in the corner.

Snow turned on my music for me.

“I’m going to dinner,” he huffs, sounding just as annoyed as he did a minute ago. “Feel better.”

The door slams behind him, and I start crying.

I know what I need to do, I just don’t want to do it. I know that I don’t have to feel this way. I can stop it. I was willing to just hide in my room and fall apart and pretend that it’s not happening, but now Snow is back, and I have a witness.

Plus I have school tomorrow.

I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I wasn’t a vampire. I wish Fiona were here.

I lay there until _Starman_ finishes and loops over to _Space Oddity_ and then becomes _Modern Love_ and by the time I get to _Changes_ I’ve worked myself up enough to pull my aching body into a sitting position and push off the blankets. I’m in sweatpants and a hoodie and I’ve never left the room looking like this before, but there’s no way I can manage trousers right now. So I shove my feet in my shoes and grab my denim jacket — which is far, far too snug — and make my way down the stairs of Mummers, David Bowie still echoing behind me.

_Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes_

_Turn and face the strange_

The Wavering Wood is probably my best bet, but it’s already dark, so the bridge will be up, and there’s not exactly any other wooded area within the bounds of campus. There are some birds up in the rafters of the White Chapel, but that sounds like an excessive amount of work.

I could always snag a first year, but that would be messy.

I circle around toward the back of Mummers, the bit that faces the moat and the ramparts and the woods beyond, and is shaded from the rest of the campus. Used to sit back here to study sometimes, but I don’t anymore, because I don’t like being close to the merwolves.

Merwolves.

Not my preferred choice for a snack, but I’m getting desperate. And I hate them, so this should be easy, right?

 **“** ** _Here fishy fishy,_ ** ” I cast, my wand shaking in my hand. **_“Here fishy fishy.”_ **

A merwolf pops its head up above the water and stares at me, and my heart starts pounding. Then it barks at me and dives back beneath the water.

“Fuck you too, you abomination,” I growl, and force myself to stand up. Maybe a merwolf was too ambitious. I need something smaller, something easier to catch, something that can’t put up a fight.

Rats. There’s loads of rats on campus.

I swallow down a nauseated feeling and set off toward the White Chapel. They’ll be in the crypts there, I’m sure of it. I remember seeing them, vaguely, when we were here for my mother’s internment. I spent the whole service watching a rat skitter into the corner and thinking about how weird their tails looked and wondering why people kept them as pets and how my mother is going to spend the rest of eternity with rats for company.

I tug my jacket tighter, look over my shoulder, then slip inside and head to the back, past the altar and toward the Poet’s Corner. I don’t really know how to get to my mother’s tomb from here, but that’s fine. I don’t want to. I refuse to do this with my mother watching.

Lighting a fire in my hand, I head down the steps and into the cool, musty darkness. It feels damp down here, and I’m chilled almost immediately. It smells like dirt and dust and dry paper, and a cobweb gets tangled in my face and I sneeze.

I hate this.

Holding onto the wall for support, I make it to a long hallway with tall arched ceilings. There are torches on the walls every few feet that I could light, but I don’t. Instead I just sit down and listen.

For once in my life, luck seems to be on my side, because after a few short moments I hear skittering and squeaking. The rats down here aren’t familiar with humans, so of course they’re not scared of me. I can see them moving in the shadows just beyond my arms reach, sniffing out food.

 _“_ ** _You look like a drowned rat,_** ” I whisper, my voice hoarse. It’s a stupid spell; it’s an agricultural spell, of all things, to get rats out of barns, but it’s meant to drown them, so that they can die quickly and I don’t have to do it.

The squeaking gets louder and more panicked from beside me, and then it goes silent. I close my eyes, count to ten, and then crawl over toward them. There’s four dead, right near the door to another room, and one more that seems to still be alive and thrashing a bit. I choke back a sound of terror as I grab it between my hands and break its neck.

I turn to the side and vomit.

There’s nothing in my stomach but spit and bile to come up, but it empties itself all the same, until I’m dry heaving and gasping and tears are streaming down my face. I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t want to do this. I wish someone would appear and tell me I don’t have to do this, and that things will be fine, and that this is all a mistake, I’m not a vampire. But that’s not going to happen. And I’m going to waste away if I don’t do this.

Wiping my tears with the back of my jacket, I pick up the rat again, bare its neck, and bring it to my lips. It smells awful. Sharp and like sweat and filth and I have to hold back another gag. My fangs pop though, sliding down to fill my mouth with only a little bit of pressure this time.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the dead rat, then sink my teeth into it.

The rat doesn’t taste good. Nothing about this taste is appealing to me in any way, but it’s like gulping water. It’s like drinking in the sun. I drain it and throw it away from me and reach for another. I’m messy when I bite into the second one; blood gets on my face and drips onto the sleeve of my jacket, and I finish that one in quick measure as well.

I finish off my pile and get up in search of more, and then finish off five more before I feel full.

Not just full.

I feel good. I feel really, really fucking good. All the pain and hunger and cold and anxiety that have been haunting me all school year, and especially since I had Wellbelove’s blood are gone. It’s almost unfathomable to me that I put this off so long, that I was sulking around and crying and — Crowley — fucking stoned.

Pathetic.

I’m pathetic.

I dust off my pants, wipe the back of my mouth with my sleeve, and gather up the rats by their tails. I retrace my steps out of the catacombs and through the White Chapel and out into the freezing night. The cold air feels incredible on my face, and the wind picks at my hair, and I feel more like _me_ than I have in a long time.

Scanning to make sure no one is around, I creep back toward Mummers, stopping only to throw the rats in the moat before I dash back upstairs.

My iPod is still playing, because I never turned it off, and it seems to have cycled over to The Talking Heads. _(Nothing But)_ _Flowers_ is playing. Snow is still gone — probably at dinner, or with The Mage, or accepting some award for being bloody perfect — which is good news, because I’m covered in blood; the sleeves of my jacket are stained a rust red, and there’s blood on the collar of my sweatshirt.

_And as things fell apart_

_Nobody paid much attention_

_You got it, you got it_

I pull off my clothes and do my best to clean them, but blood is notoriously difficult to get out, and the jacket still has some stains that are going to have to be hand washed. Maybe I won’t bother. That jacket is getting too small, and Fiona gave it to me as some symbol of punk adulthood, and I’m feeling extremely anti-Fiona and all things adult right now, so I wad it up and shove it in the back of my wardrobe, then head to the shower. David Byrne is still shouting at me through my record player.

_Don't leave me stranded here_

_I can't get used to this lifestyle_

I do wish Fiona were here though. I wish I could tell her what happened, and hear her make a joke out of it, and then talk to her about where to go next. But I don’t want to call her. I don’t even want to _see_ her, because I’m not sure if I can forgive her; not just for her own reaction, but for everything she dislodged in me with her stupid, careless, offensive comment.

Keeping this change from her will be impossible, though. Hunting in London isn’t going to be easy, and she’ll notice it, and the longer I keep it from her, the harder it’s going to be to tell her, and then she’ll freak out that I didn’t tell her immediately, and it will all be bad. I wish I could trust her to just leave me to my own devices and not ask questions, but she’s never been that sort.

Malcolm is, though.

Malcolm wouldn’t ask questions, because he wouldn’t want to know. All he wants is us to pretend like I’m normal — like _we’re_ normal. Which is actually kind of all I want right now too. Things are clearer, easier for me to think through, without pain and hunger clouding me. Malcolm won’t make me talk about being gay or being a vampire or how this makes me _feel_.

Once the cobwebs and dust have been thoroughly scrubbed from my hair, I get out, dress in my pyjamas, and head back to bed. I pull Snow’s blanket around my shoulders and retrieve my mobile from my bedside table, and dial the number.

Too late, I realise that it’s nighttime. They might be in bed. They might not even answer, but then—

“Hello?” My father’s voice echoes through the other line, and my stomach clenches. I have a wild urge to tell him everything, to start crying and tell him I just sat in the dark and killed ten rats and I’m so sorry but it was better than a merwolf, but I had to eat them because I’m a _vampire_ now and also my teeth can come out on command.

“Father,” I say. “It’s me, Baz.”

“Is everything alright? I just heard from the Coven that Snow came back, did anything happen? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” I say, cutting him off sharply. “I’m fine. I just wanted to ask… Well… I thought…” I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. “I thought I might come stay in Hampshire this summer. With you, and Mordelia. And Daphne. If you’d like.”

I don’t know if Fiona will have told him about the fight, but guessing by his long silence, he either knows, or wants this badly enough to not ask.

“Of course,” he says finally, decisively. “You don’t even need to ask. It’s your home.”

Something sick twists in my stomach at the word, and the blood sloshing around in me takes on an acrid note, but I swallow it down.

“And I thought—” I start, preparing to take a wild stab in the dark. But why not just exorcise all my fears in one go, eh? “I thought we might go through Mum’s records. You and I, that is. Together.”

“I’d love that,” Malcolm says. His voice falters for a moment. “I can’t wait to have you home.”

“Yeah,” I say, staring across my empty dorm room. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS MENTIONED:**  
> [ _The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song_](https://open.spotify.com/track/2mlIzqDE7RaMaMx1UPdsXL?si=KcreWtS7T2OJ1USBMuntKw) — The Flaming Lips
> 
>  _[Bela Lugosi’s Dead](https://open.spotify.com/track/1cPf2khrcp6iRfTGFisSoS?si=3fEH2OVfTcu0fHyHrdKP-g) — _ Bauhaus
> 
>  _[Psycho Killer](https://open.spotify.com/track/1i6N76fftMZhijOzFQ5ZtL?si=vrRYxLLARKCBWfmbiQoCbA) — _ The Talking Heads
> 
> [ _(Nothing But) Flowers_](https://open.spotify.com/track/3NNatBZ65onPjc4eeWhwNm?si=c-lDY3kuTH-cI55jOT0IiA)— The Talking Heads   
>  **ALBUMS MENTIONED:**  
>  _[Angst In My Pants](https://open.spotify.com/album/7eMZ934Zpj7TrFsEhajh7q?si=pEzxKWwFRPSEWPZWYtDF4A) — _ Sparks
> 
>  _[Stop Making Sense](https://open.spotify.com/album/4FR8Z6TvIsC56NLyNomNRE?si=ffFWqTxwQgO0YiVzp-TClQ) — _ Talking Heads
> 
>  _[The Stranger](https://open.spotify.com/album/3IILMjMMnoN2sKzgesX8KV?si=gMvMi5UIQ3qiY19rQy232w) — _ Billy Joel
> 
>  _[Hatful of Hollow](https://open.spotify.com/album/1j57Q5ntVi7crpibb0h4sv?si=ncCq6c-9ReK_f8hURF6sOw) — _ The Smiths  
>  **ARTISTS MENTIONED:**  
>  Velvet Underground
> 
> David Bowie
> 
> Television
> 
> Talking Heads
> 
> Misfits
> 
> The Ramones
> 
> The Smiths
> 
> Nico
> 
> Pulp
> 
> Nick Cave
> 
> Fugazi


	5. Pretty Vacant | Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR FOUR, PART 1: Werewolves, monkeys, selkies, oh my! Bad decisions, teenage depression, awkward family conversations and Welsh stereotypes. When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set your crush on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **THANK YOU TO:**  
> 
> @great-merlins-beard for the never ending help and patience and beta reading. you're an angel. could not do this without you.
> 
> You can check out the [ **'rebel rebel'**](https://spoti.fi/2vgJ2TT) playlist on Spotify!
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**  [Pretty Vacant](https://open.spotify.com/track/2mKj8Em0GLFu8I78yM1CfU?si=Kp9bJowzQpWIB_HGWzD2Rg) — The Sex Pistols
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs and albums mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> Authors Note: This year has been split up into two parts because it was SO LONG. This bit is a lot of set up, so apologies, but I wanted to get you content! Bear with me. Shit gets WILD in part 2..

“No, Marcus. For the last time, no.”

“Are you sure? I’ve got so many ideas—” my cousin cuts off with a grunt as Dev lands a well placed kick. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I watch as Dev hisses something in our cousin Marcus’s ear, then gestures at my father, who is looking pointedly at the road and pretending not to listen in on this conversation. 

It’s one thing for Malcolm to smile indulgently when he hears about the various ways I’ve annoyed the Mage, but it’s another entirely for him to be complicit in the planning stages. Marcus doesn’t seem to have any concept of this, however. He’s about as subtle as a brick. He’s pure Grimm. And an immense thorn in my side.

When I asked Malcolm if I could stay in Hampshire with him this summer, I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be subjected to a steady stream of relatives, traipsing in and out of the house. All I wanted was to listen to music and get through some books and not talk to anyone, and instead it was like living on the set of the Brady Bunch. There were always  _dinners_  and  _socialisation_  and  _things to do_.

I spent half the summer sitting in the woods along the edge of Malcolm’s property, just reading. I ended up going through all of my mother’s old books (several times), but Marcus was always so up in my space that on several occasions I had to literally sneak them out under my shirt. I had to pretend I was cooking up some intensive plot, which Dev is allegedly in on, and our Marcus has been pissing himself to be included.

“What if we spell him so all his books are in Welsh?” Marcus says, completely disregarding Dev’s kick. “I saw this special on the BBC, Welsh is wild. It’s like all consonants, you know? He’d go wild.”

Beside me, Malcolm breaks his silence with an uncharacteristic snort.

“I don’t think that’s going to do much to inconvenience Llewellyn,” he says with a chuckle. 

The car goes silent.

“Who’s Llewellyn?” Marcus asks, putting voice to the question that Dev and I are too well mannered to ask. My father blinks back at him.

“Oh. You don’t know? That’s the Mage. Davy Llewellyn,” Malcolm says, his voice growing sharp with displeasure. It’s the usual tone used to talk about the Mage in my family.

“Llewellyn,” I say, as Dev says, “Davy.”

“He’s Welsh,” Malcolm says. “I’m fairly sure he speaks it.”

“The Mage’s name is  _Davy?_ ” I ask, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Davy? I always assumed it had to be something with a bit more… _flair_.”

“I always kind of thought he was just named The Mage,” Dev says. 

“What about Gaelic? Do Welsh people speak Gaelic?” Marcus asks.

“Davy,” Dev whispers to himself.

“How much farther to school? Is it true if you look at the gates you can fry your eyes? I heard that Snow blew the gates off their hinges. And that he blew up a tower. Did he really kill a snake?” Marcus asks.

“Serpent,” Dev says, his eyes glued to his phone, and I take a deep, steadying breath. Mordelia is better behaved than my cousin. I’d rather be stuck in a car with her that him anyday. At least she shuts up long enough to listen to music. Not that we have any music playing right now. Malcolm isn’t a fan of my taste, so to avoid awkwardness, I just don’t play anything around him.

“Soon,” I snap, crossing my arms and righting myself in the front seat. Malcolm’s car is roomier than Fiona’s, I guess, but it’s far less comfortable. It’s so new and modern and flashy, anyway. Sure, it’s a Jaguar, but it doesn't have the same cool factor as the MG.

There’s a twinge when I think about Fiona, and I shove it back ruthlessly, just like I have all summer. It’s not worth it to focus on her and how she is and what she’s doing. I know she’s fine; Malcolm would have told me if she weren’t. But we haven’t had any communication at all since Fight Night (as I’ve been calling it) and even though it’s honestly taking up a lot of my energy to continue being angry at her, I’m not ready to let it go yet. 

Because while I was hiding out in the woods and draining bunnies and reading books and avoiding my family members, three things became pretty clear to me.

I’m going to have to tell Fiona that I’m gay. And I’m going to have to deal with all the implications and questions that come with it.

I’m going to tell her I started drinking blood, because someone should know. Just in case I ever lose control and do something. Malcolm has no idea we’ve hit that point yet, but Fiona should know. She’s the only one who would be strong enough to do what needs to be done, if it comes to it.

I’m going to have to grow up.

I’m not sure if this is what my mother would have wanted; me being back at home with Malcolm, putting away my band t-shirts and going to the club and acting like an uptight twat, while also being miserable every step of the way. But I don’t know if she’d want me to be smoking and pulling pranks and causing a ruckus, even if it made me happy. 

I just don’t know. There’s a middle ground in there somewhere, I think. It’s just a matter of finding it. And until I do, I’m just going to lie low. No pranks. No fued with Snow. No Bela Lugosi brooding or pining over — admittedly gorgeous — unavailable straight teachers. This year I’m just going to do my schoolwork. I’m not going to get sucked into trouble or drama or Snow’s world. I’m just going to focus on me, and getting myself through the next five years.

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

 

***

 

The Chosen One looks like shit.

He limps into our room in Mummers House and tosses his bag down on his bed. His left arm is in a sling, he has a split lip, there’s a long scratch across his chin, and he’s thin. He’s so thin. He grew over the summer, and now we’re almost the same height. (I’m still taller, though. Brilliant.) He’s so thin we’re almost the same size.

Also, he’s shaved all his hair for some unknown, horrifying reason.

“What happened to you?” I bark out before I can stop myself. I hadn’t planned to talk to him. My goal for this year was to just ignore him completely. 

“Werewolves!” he says, like this is the greatest news ever. He’s smiling. He’s completely insane. I’ve rarely seen him this happy.

“I’m going to need more details,” I say, closing my book and turning to the record player that’s sitting next to me on the window seat. I turn down _The Only Living Boy In New York_ a bit and resettle myself. It’s on one of my mother’s records. I’d never say it out loud, but after listening to her records this summer, I don’t think my mother had very good music taste. Her records are full of strange, unexpected artists like Billy Joel and Prince. There are two different Elton John albums. Still, some of it has grown on me a bit, I suppose. It’s extremely different from the stuff Fiona raised me on, which is a good thing in my opinion.

I adjust my trousers and give Snow my full attention. This will be our only conversation for the year. Why not make it good?

Snow looks a bit suspicious, but he sits down on his bed and kicks off his revolting trainers. 

“The Mage took me to a werewolf den.”

I almost fall off my perch. 

“You went to a werewolf den? Did you kill them? Did you get bitten?” Did the Mage lead a werewolf slaughter? That’s inhumane. They’re people for the majority of the month. They’re more human than I am. 

“No,” Snow says from the bed. His voice is muffled because he’s collapsed into the blankets. “Mage wanted to talk to them about—” he pauses, as if he’s just realised he shouldn’t be sharing the details of his exploits with me. He stops. “Yeah.”

I’ve never seen a werewolf before. They’re about as close to vampires as you can get in the dark creature hierarchy. They’re treated about the same, anyway, but some of them can speak with magic.

“What were they like?”

Snow shrugs. 

“Scary. Cool. They have big claws.”

I’d forgotten that talking to Snow is like talking to a brick wall sometimes. He’s incapable of holding a conversation. I turn my music back up and go back to ignoring him. 

Eventually he gets up and gets around to unpacking his meagre possessions. He hovers over his school uniform like it’s something delightful, and then he goes into our bathroom and puts it on, even though it’s the day before term and he really doesn’t have to be wearing it yet. But he wears his uniform all the time, even on weekends or just hanging around. He looks at himself in the mirror, like he’s preening, then turns to me.

“Who is this band? I like this,” he says, casually, like this isn’t an earth shattering development.

“You never like my music,” I blurt out, startled. He shrugs and turns back to the mirror. 

“Your music never sounds like this,” he responds, straightening his tie. 

“It’s Simon & Garfunkle. The song’s called  _Cecilia,_ ” I tell him, almost speechless. I have the mad urge to reach over and turn down the music completely so that he can’t hear it. What are the odds of he and my mother having the same taste in music? Also, Simon & Garfunkle? Really?

“Cool,” he says, and leaves the room.

I hadn’t wanted to admit it last year, what with everything going on, but something definitely shifted between Snow and I after the night I refuse to think about. The next morning I was feeling substantially better, what with having gorged myself on the campus rodents, but Snow didn’t know that. I woke up to find that he’d brought tea back to the room. When I saw him in class later that day, he’d nodded at me. I was so baffled by the interaction and also still so emotionally strung out that I hadn’t even snapped at him for it. 

Apparently that’s all it took. 

My limbs feel slow and stiff as I remove myself from my spot on the window seat and turn off the music. The back to school picnic will have already started, and I’ve put it off long enough. I want to see Niall — I haven’t seen him all summer — but I’m dreading having to inevitably be attacked by Marcus. Why he doesn’t glom onto Dev is beyond me. And he’s a second cousin, anyway. Maybe he’ll stop once the Crucible gives him a roommate and he has someone new to become obsessed with.

I pocket my mobile — I got a new one this summer, an early birthday present courtesy of Malcolm and Daphne, a shiny iPhone that can hold all my music — and head out toward the Lawn. It’s picturesque. Students are sprawled out on the green, eating and laughing and shouting to friends they haven’t see all summer. Snow has found his posse and staked out a spot closest to the food tables. Bunce catches my eye and gives me a friendly nod, and I nod back. Snow has his head on Wellbelove’s lap, and she looks up from adoring the boy — revolting — to wave at me.

This is fucking surreal.

“Dev bet me ten quid he was going to pull Agatha this year,” Niall says, appearing at my side. The fucker just keeps growing; he’s way taller than me, and I fix him with a look of intense displeasure at this fact.

“He’s throwing away good money,” I say, gesturing at the lovers tableau that is Snow and Wellbelove. They look sickeningly perfect together. Everyone’s been betting on them being a couple for awhile now. It’ll probably happen this year.

They’ve added a fourth member, a skinny Hispanic boy with huge glasses that I don’t know, and he looks like he’s hanging off of every word that Bunce says. 

“Who is that?” Niall asks, pointing to the fourth boy. He’d stared at me with wide eyes when Bunce waved at me.

“American, I think,” I say with a shrug. “One of the exchange students. I’d heard there might be a few around”

“We do exchange students? Since when?”

“Since the Mage opened us up to the masses,” I sneer. I’m not really interested in making friends with any Americans. They may have produced good music once upon a time, but all they’ve done lately is work hard to negate that fact.

Dev catches sight of us from where he’s standing by the food table, his face flattened out as Marcus talks his ear off. He nods and points to something in the distance, and as Marcus turns to look, Dev slips away and nearly runs into Niall and my’s waiting arms.

“I’m going to kill him,” he says when he reaches us. “I’m going to hold him down and have Baz cut off his tongue and then we’re going to bury him somewhere deep underground.”

“I think Snow’s snake pit is still empty,” I say, my face expressionless. “Maybe he would—”

I shouldn’t be surprised when the first scream rends the air, because that’s what happens, now. This is Watford; where there is a large gathering of students, there will be a scream. Following the first shouts is the sound of fluttering — strange and rhythmic, like the beating of wings. I’m scanning the ground, looking for the source of the scream, when I see them in the tree line.

“Oh, you have to be shitting me,” I shout, unable to stop myself. 

Flying monkeys.

Strange, leering things with leathery bat-like wings, descending on the picnic in a horde. Some students are yelling, trying to get away, while others just stare in amazement. Flying monkeys are not at all common — you almost never see them outside of the rainforest, so what they’re doing in England is completely beyond me. Which means it must be the Humdrum.

“Should we help?” Niall asks, starting forward. Dev and I grab each of his arms and drag him backwards into the safety of the covered pathway that leads between classrooms.

“Snow can handle this,” I say, pointing toward where my roommate is already on his feet, grabbing for his sword. “I think we’re safe to sit this one out and maybe not get killed.”

Students swarm into the pathway with us as the monkeys arrive, knocking over the food table, grabbing at people with their grubby paws, shrieking like demons. Close to the woods there’s a terrified shouting, and over the din I can hear Snow’s voice —

“Someone get ready to catch him!”

I follow Snow’s gaze and see Marcus, hanging in midair, being carried steadily upward by two monkeys.

“For fucks sake,” I roar, dashing out of the safety of the pathway and toward my cousin, who is gaining height. 

“ ** _Float like a butterfly!_** ” I cast on him, just as Snow rears back and  _throws his fucking sword_  into the monkey on the right. It sticks with a sickening thud, and the monkey goes down. The left one lets go of Marcus immediately, and my cousin gently floats to earth, screaming his head off. I reach him and the dead monkey first, Snow hot on my heels. He braces one foot against the monkey’s head and pulls his weapon free with a grunt, then turns to me. The sling covering his bad arm is covered in blood.

“You got him?”

“Use dead in the air,” I answer instead, grabbing at my sobbing cousin and pulling him to his feet as six more monkeys converge on us. 

“Move,  _now_ ,” I hiss, shoving Marcus forward. Dev darts out from safety to meet him, and I turn back to Snow, brandishing my wand and prepared to help him even though this is literally the last thing I want to be doing, when he drops into his fighting stance, throws his sword into the earth, pulls his wand and shouts  _“_ ** _dead in the air!_** _”_

All of the monkeys drop with horrifying thuds.

Snow is panting, his face screwed up in disbelief like he didn’t really think it would work. He bends and kicks at the monkey that fell closest to us, students all around the lawn doing the same thing. 

I can’t believe it worked. Snow’s magic  _never_ works that well. I guess sometimes luck must be on his side though, because—

More thuds, suddenly, from everywhere around us. Birds are falling to earth. A bat drops from its perch beneath one of the gargoyles. Everywhere we look, winged creatures are falling down dead. It’s like something out of a horror movie. It’s even more terrifying than the monkeys.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Snow says, his blue eyes wide as he looks around. He wipes his bloody sword against the side of his pants and sheathes it back into thin air with a flick of his wrist, then crouches to inspect a bird. “That really wasn’t meant to happen.”

“I’ll give you credit,” I tell him, nudging a monkey carcass out of my way with the toe of my foot. “You are  _excellent_  at killing things. Unparalleled. Bravo.”

Snow looks up from his bird inspection, his eyes bright, his face crumpled. He looks gutted.

“I don’t want to be,” he says. 

My stomach thuds into my throat. Snow hates the one thing he’s good at.

“Right. Well.” I clear my throat. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?” I inch by a dead monkey. “By the way, you have blood on your face.”

Snow wipes at his face with the back of his hand and smears monkey blood across his brow as he growls at me, and I walk away.

 

***

 

Hunting is manageable, if I do it on a cycle. Over the summer I tested my limits, to see how much I need to feed, and I figure I can go three days at most between meals. Two days is ideal, and every day is best, but I don’t start to fully fall apart until I hit the day four mark. 

The idea of going back down into the catacombs to repeat the incident with the rats is almost too much to stomach, so I stick to the Wavering Wood. I also hunt in the mornings.

Snow has the awful habit of waking up at 5:30 and banging around the room so that he can be down to breakfast right as the doors are unlocked. Usually I sleep through this, or shout at him through this, or spell his shoes to the floor, but I’ve started to get up with him, throw on my training joggers, and tell him I’m going for a run.

No one blinks when I circle campus and head toward the Wavering Wood. I have just enough time to drain a rabbit, come back, shower, and grab a cup of tea before class. On days that I hunt, I’m not that hungry; it’s easy for me to wait until dinner to eat.

It’s a good system, and one that I’m proud of. 

Until Niall tries to get involved.

Dev would never wake up early enough to join me, not if his life depended on it, but Niall is like Snow. He’s an early riser, and after three weeks of my routine, he catches me on my way out of Mummers, his hoodie on and headphones in his ears.

“Hey birthday boy, slow up!” he calls, jogging over to me. I freeze, my mind running through possible ways to shake him before I get to the Woods. Maybe I can speed up and take him on a path he doesn’t know? I probably know the Woods better than anyone than maybe Snow by this point. But as a result I know that there’s some sketchy stuff in there when you go off the trails. It doesn’t feel right to leave Niall to his own devices; especially when I know he’s a bit skittish. 

I pull out my headphones and turn off  _Debaser_ and do my best to not look annoyed.

“Happy birthday,” Niall says, panting slightly when he gets to me. He’s never been one for speed; he’s a goalkeeper, and he typically avoids having to go on runs or do suicides. 

“Thanks,” I say, nudging his elbow. “I’m heading into the Woods, heads up. You might not want to join.”

Niall shrugs. 

“Lead the way. Just don’t get me lost,” he says with a grin, and we set out, the cool September air against our faces. He’s already ruddy with the exertion, but I’m not. I could run ten times this distance and not break a sweat. One of my Bela Lugosi perks.

“How does being fourteen feel?” he asks, wheezing as we slow down to go over a fallen log.

“Just like being thirteen,” I answer, but it’s not the truth. No switch flipped this morning or anything, but I won’t lie that I have high hopes for fourteen. I’m dealing with my issues. I am only avoiding two things currently, which is a hell of a lot better than I was doing last year. Fourteen is good, so far. “Here’s hoping this year isn’t so annoying, though.”

“Right. About that,” he says, having caught his breath a bit as we slow to head off of the path by the pitch and into the Woods. I’m not going to be able to hunt this morning. I’ve already reconciled myself to it. All that’s left is to go for a jog and ride out Niall’s feelings. 

He does this, sometimes, because he wasn’t raised in the proper Old Family style where we tuck our emotions into our breast pockets and keep them there till we die.

“Out with it then,” I say, pretending to pant a bit so Niall doesn’t get suspicious.

“We haven’t really talked about what happened last year, you know.”

“What happened last year?” I force myself to keep my voice calm, and duck under a low hanging branch. 

“You kind of fell off the map for a bit there, mate,” Niall pants. “The weed, and spending all that time in your room, and the fight with Fiona. And then suddenly everything was good and you were talking to us again and it was like nothing ever happened.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. My heart is racing, and not from the exertion of our run, and I have a mad urge to just keep running, to bolt away from this conversation. Instead I angle us down a different path, one that cuts around the huge lake. Beside me, Niall is huffing. He comes to a stop, bending over to brace his hands on his knees as he wipes red hair out of his face.

“Just, you know. If anything happened, or there’s something bothering you… you can tell me, you know? And Dev. Whatever it is.”

Do they know? How could they possibly know? I’ve been so incredibly careful. I can barely move, I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack. I know he’s trying to be supportive or something, but it’s making me feel wildly uncomfortable.

I stare off over his shoulder as I try to come up with something that is both dismissive and nice, when my attention is completely ripped away from the conversation.

“What is that?”

Niall turns to look in the direction I’m pointing, through the trees a bit and toward the large, sloping hill that we’ve been running alongside. There’s a crumble of rocks and debris, and it looks like the mountain has partially caved in on itself — or rather, caved just enough to reveal a huge, gaping cavern in the side of the mountain. Through it we can see the sun twinkling off of water.

“Is that the beach?” Niall asks, stepping towards it. I grab his shirt and hold him back. The beach isn’t supposed to be accessible. Watford isn’t that far from from the Norfolk coast — we’re somewhere in an unnamed village around King’s Lyn — but no one (that I know of) has ever gone searching for access because the coves along the coast are generally considered more dangerous than the Wavering Wood. Fiona used to tell me that students would sneak out at night to build bonfires and in the morning, they’d all be missing. 

 _“Half my class dropped that way,”_  she’d said once.  _“We all had seen The Craft and wanted to recreate that beach scene. Didn’t go too well for us, as you might imagine_.”

During Fiona’s last year of school, my mum and several members of the Coven went out and literally sewed the mountain together to block off access, to make sure students couldn’t get through there. Fiona never told me what it was exactly that they were protecting us from, but clearly it was something.

And now it’s been opened back up.

“What do you think—” Niall starts, but I cut him off.

“The gate,” I say, cursing. “When Snow opened the fucking third gate last year, it sent off a shock wave, remember? I bet it unraveled the spell or caused a landslide.”

“Should we tell someone?” Niall asks, panting. I squint at it. The waves are winking at us, the sound of seagulls suddenly crystal clear. It was silent before, just the sound of birds and squirrels, but now I can hear the ocean beating itself against the sand, calling us to come say hello.

“Probably,” I respond, tearing my eyes from the far off shore. “Come on, let’s get back.”

 

***

 

“I told you, it was an accident,” I say for the eighth time, rolling my eyes. Beside me, Snow huffs and scrubs at the singed edges of his hair. I do feel a little bad. He’s going to have to cut off some of the curls. But I don’t want him to know that I’m capable of remorse, so instead I smirk. “And anyway, your hair looks better this way.”

“You  _set me_  on  _fire_!” he shouts, causing a handful of first years walking ahead of us to turn around and stare.

“Only a little,” I say dismissively. It actually  _was_  an accident, and I think he knows it. I was throwing fireballs across the Lawn, but I’d had them mostly under control. But then he got up in my face and told me to stop and one of the fireballs kind of got out of control and…

Well. It’s his fault. And he punched me after Bunce put him out, so it’s all worked out evenly. It would have been fine if Professor Hollow hadn’t stepped in and made a big deal out of it.

“You could have killed me!” Snow shouts as we get to the door of the Weeping Tower. I shrug.

“Your death would have its advantages,” I sneer, and pull open the door. 

The walk to the Mage’s office feels like it takes ten years, and I know it’s because I’m dragging my feet. Even Snow looks reticent, now that we’re here, and he’s usually aching for a chance to get me in trouble. 

He raises his hand to knock on the office door when it flies open and the Mage appears, looking frazzled.

“Simon!” he exclaims. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He doesn’t seem very pleased.

“Professor Hollow sent us, sir,” Snow says. “There, er, was an incident. See… uh, Baz… my hair—”

“Simon, sorry to cut you off, but I’m on the way out,” the Mage says, brushing by us with his arms full of books. “Can you handle this yourself?”

“Uh,” Snow says. “Yeah. Yeah, no problem.”

The Mage nods, and then pats him on the head like a fucking dog. 

“Good man,” he says, locking his office behind us. “Come see me later tonight, yes? I want to know how you’re getting along with that little assignment.”

Snow looks panicked, like he’s about to puke at any minute, but he just nods and swallows down his anxiety. 

“Yes sir,” he says. But the Mage is gone already, striding off down the hall, his arms full of books. I turn to look at Snow, feeling a thousand times lighter from the knowledge that I’m not going to have to admit to setting the Mage’s Heir on fire.

“What little assignment is that?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he growls, shoving past me to book it back down the stairs. “Just wants me to come up with a spell.”

“You?” I ask, scoffing. “Why not come up with one himself?”

“Because it’s a test,” Snow huffs, shouldering open the main door and bursting out onto the Lawn. “Of course he can do it himself, he’s just trying to train me to problem solve.”

“Well what’s the spell for, then?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t want to actually help Snow, but I feel buoyed by my narrow escape, and also I like problems. I like riddling them out. And maybe it’ll give me a chance to make Snow feel worse about himself.

“Walking on water,” he says glumly, and I nearly choke.

“The Mage wants you to  _walk on water?_ ” I start laughing. “Snow, that’s impossible. No one can do that.”

“It’s not impossible,” he growls back. “He wouldn’t ask me to do it if it was impossible.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I don’t say anything, and instead open the door to Mummers and file in ahead of him. Walking on water. What is the Mage trying to accomplish? Mages have been trying to figure out a spell for that since the Bible came out, and no one has accomplished it yet. There’s too many factors that go into it. 

“What’s the end goal? Is he just going to ask you to walk across the moat, or is he trying to get somewhere?”

“Trying to get across a small stretch of water without touching it. Apparently all the water crossing spells are for fresh water? And this is salt water? Dunno why that matters.”

So the Mage is having Snow do something down at the coastline. Interesting.

“Maybe the answer is to just get across water without actually walking on it,” I say pensively. Snow frowns at me.

“That’s what Penny said. She suggested I do a levitation spell, but I’m shit at them.”

I hum. He is shit at them. I saw him try to cast  ** _up, up, and away_**  once and I was terrified he was going to rip his lungs out. 

“Why isn’t Bunce helping you with this, then?”

Snow shrugs and kicks open our door. 

“She’s busy. She’s been spending a lot of time with Micah, so, you know how it is.”

I don’t know how it is. I don’t really know who Micah is. The American, maybe? I have seen them around campus a bit. I haven’t really paid attention to them.

I throw my bag on my bed and turn on Snow, my eyes narrowed. I actually have an idea. It’s something that’s been kicking around in my head for a bit, but there’s no way to approach him about it. And besides, why would I? If I’m right — if it works — I’d just be helping him control his magic, which is the last thing I want to do. He’s far less useful to the Mage’s evil plots if he can actually control his wand. 

But still…

I learnt quite a bit from my summer reading my mother’s old books. They were just school books and spell books, but she’d annotated some of the edges in tidy, cramped writing. Our handwriting is actually really similar, I realised, which made me feel uncomfortably happy. But there’s a note in one of her books about spell association; any Mage knows that understanding the source material is key to casting a strong spell. But she’d underlined a section about emotional association, and written next to it: “ _singing?_ ”

I’ve been thinking a lot about that. About singing spells, and Snow. He trips over his words and he mumbles his spells and it’s like the words get stuck in his throat when he goes to speak. And he doesn’t know half the references that the spells are based on. So no wonder he’s completely useless at casting. 

But he knows music. At least, some music. 

I’ve heard him, sometimes, in the shower, humming along to my music when he doesn’t think I notice. He’s sung Queen once or twice — especially after my first year prank. And he doesn’t mumble when he does it.

Snow could probably sing spells, I think. If he knew the song.

While he gets in the shower, I dig through the box of my mother’s records until I find Simon and Garfunkle. I actually don’t like this album (there’s only a handful of good songs on it), but I pull it out and set it up on the record player and then settle in at my desk. Snow appears back in the room a few moments later, just as  _Bridge Over Troubled Water_  starts, and he pauses toweling at his hair to squint at the record player. 

“Oh,” he says, then pauses. “I like this song.”

“Good for you,” I respond, not looking up from my Greek homework. Snow stays standing in the doorway, staring at the record player, and I can practically smell his brains frying as he thinks. Then he sets the towel down, goes over to his bed and sits quietly, his back to the wall as he listens to the music. When the song finishes, he stands up, picks up the needle, and gently moves it to start the song again.

 

***

 

“What do you know about selkies?”

I look up from my homework to stare at Snow. He’s been silent ever since I got back from my nightly visit to the kitchens, and I had assumed he was actually doing homework for once. He’s had his nose stuck in a book the size of my head for the better part of an hour. He didn’t even blink when I put on music, and I thought I caught him mouthing along to Dusty Springfield.  _Take Another Little Piece of My Heart._ It’s from one of my mother’s albums. I’ll never get over the fact that those two share music taste. 

Really? The boy shuns David fucking Bowie, but likes Dusty Springfield?

“Selkies? Why would I know about selkies?” I ask, surprised.

He just shrugs and closes the book and leans forward, his chin resting on his hand. He has bags under his eyes, and he looks tired. He hasn’t been sleeping much lately. He needs rest.

“I just thought you would know,” he says. “You know that kind of stuff. Dark creatures and shit.”

“Selkies aren’t dark creatures,” I say automatically. “They’re magical humanoid hybrids. They’re supposed to be rather attractive, aren’t they?”

Snow makes a face and shakes his head.

“That’s what I thought, right?” he says, his voice picking up. “But they’re kind of creepy. They’ve got these teeth and these dark eyes and they’re all… I dunno.”

“Where did you see a selkie?”

“At the coast,” Snow shrugs. “I know we’re not meant to be there, but the Mage wanted me to look for something. Anyway. I don’t think they’re that attractive. I don’t mind the teeth so much, but they’re all weird looking.”

I’m not sure I’m able to properly appreciate the sheer oddity of this conversation. Snow and I. Talking casually. About attractive creatures. Whose teeth Snow doesn’t mind. What the fuck is wrong with this kid?

“Well they are a magical creature,” I say. “I suppose it’s a little odd to find any creature attractive.”

I’m not being self-deprecating. I pass as human extremely well, and I know I’m not bad looking.

“You think? I don’t think it’s weird,” he says pensively. I can feel myself blush. Why am I blushing? Stop it. “I don’t know, goblins are kind of fit, aren’t they?” he says, smiling at me. “That’s like, what they’re known for.”

“ _Goblins_?” I say, a laugh startled out of me. I don’t think Snow has ever made me laugh. “You think  _goblins_  are fit? Crowley Snow, what’s wrong with—”

There’s a soft knock on the door, and I call for whoever's on the other side to come in. I assumed it was Dev, because he’d mentioned wanting to borrow my notes, but I’m not that surprised when I see NIall’s mop of hair in the doorway. 

“Hey,” he says, and I made a noncommittal noise of greeting back at him, not looking up from my homework. Goblins. Really? 

Niall doesn’t move from the door.

“Weird question. Can I borrow your suit? I’ve grown out of mine.”

“My suit? Why do you need my—” I look up and my words die in my throat as I take in Niall’s splotchy face, the lilac bags on his cheeks and the prominent red veins running through his eyes that showcase he’s been crying. Hard.

“What happened?” I ask, shooting up from my spot and crossing the room to him. Snow looks up from his bed and watches us curiously. I think he has some kind of anthropological fascination with the idea of me having friends. 

“Just got a letter. Gran— Gran passed, so I’m heading home.”

“What?” 

Niall sits down heavily on my bed and nods, and I can tell he’s trying extremely hard to have a stiff upper lip about this and not cry. His gran was… everything to him. She raised him. She was a short old lady (who smelled like cabbage on all three occasions I met her) and she scared the shit out of me, but he loved her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because there’s not really anything else to say. I should be able to come up with something, though. I, of all people, should have some words for this. 

The sound of a bed creaking rings out, and Niall and I turn to see Snow standing up from his seat, looking extremely awkward. 

“I’m going to go to dinner,” he says to me. Then his eyes fall on Niall. He opens his mouth a few times, like he’s going to say something, and finally closes it. “I won’t be back for a few hours. Stay out of my bedside drawer.”

He’s communicating something with us silently, and I’ve no idea what it is, but the second the door closes behind him, Niall lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“What the fuck is in his bedside drawer?” he asks. I shrug.

“Chocolate, mostly,” I answer, and see Niall’s face light up. I lean over, pull open the drawer, and, sure enough, lying within is a stash of mint Aero bars. I grab two and toss one to Niall. 

“We’ll come up for the funeral, of course,” I say quietly. “Dev and I.”

Niall nods and lets out another low, shuddering breath. 

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. Right. Thanks. And… Fiona. Gran loved her. She should be there.”

I wince slightly, and try to cover it by looking away, but Niall sees it. 

“Baz, don’t fuck with this,” he says sharply. More sharply than he’s ever spoken in his life. “Whatever the fuck happened, let it go. Just call your fucking aunt.”

“It’s not that simple,” I start, getting annoyed and feeling unjustly attacked. “And anyway, that’s not the point—”

“The point is that my gran is dead,” Niall snaps. “The woman who raised me is dead, and I want Fiona there, and you’re pussy footing around because you got caught fucking up.”

I rear back like I’ve been slapped. 

“What?” I spit, almost shaking, “thats not—”

But Niall is already shaking his head, shoving his palms into his eyes and making a groaning sound. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, sounding gutted. “I’m sorry, that was so out of line. I just—” his voice cracks. “I shouldn’t take this out on you.”

I sit down on Snow’s bed and stare at my friend dumbly. 

“When the fuck did you become so emotionally mature?” I ask him, amazed. He gives a watery laugh and shrugs. 

“Someone had to, eh? You and Dev weren’t going to rise to it. Anyway, sorry about this,” he says, sniffing, and stands. “I didn’t mean to come up here and be a wet blouse about it all.”

“You haven’t been,” I said dumbly, because this conversation has moved so far beyond the realms of my ability to keep up and follow. Niall apparently has emotional depths that I can’t reach, since my emotions really only extend to “anger” and “disappointment.”

“Just… I don’t ever want you to feel like this, someday,” Niall says. He takes a bite of his chocolate slowly and stares at the floor. “It fucking sucks.”

We’re silent together, letting the music wash over us.

“Do you think there’s a spell that could go back and erase the last ten minutes from our memories?” Niall says quietly.

“Not one that I know,” I respond. “But I can get Snow back here. I’m sure if he focuses hard enough he could probably burn out the past five years.”

“No thanks,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “I saw accidentally saw Fiona’s tits the summer after first year. I never want to forget that.”

“You’re grieving, so I’m going to ignore that,” I say, making a face as I stand up to cut the music. “Alright, I say we need a distraction, don’t you? Go grab Dev, tell him to dress warm. I’ve an idea.”

“A good idea or a bad idea?” Niall asks hesitantly.

“Which do you prefer?”

Niall pauses for a long moment. 

“I think a bad idea sounds like a great distraction right now.” 

A lupine grin stretches across my face, and I bend down to tug on a jumper. 

“Then you’re in luck, because this is probably my worst idea yet.”

 

***

 

We find the access to the beach easily, just by following the rambling trail through the Wavering Wood until the sticks under our feet disappear and the ground turns to sand and graphite. The large, thick trees become thin, skeletal creatures, and soon the hill before us opens up into a large cavern of rock, the moonlit glow of the ocean visible just beyond. 

Dev has been grumbling since we first set out — he’s heard the stories as well, and students were told in no uncertain terms that we were to stay away from the beach — but Niall seems excited, and I think Dev and I would do pretty much anything right now to keep Niall in a good mood. He’s leaving tomorrow to go back to Dublin, and the idea of him sitting in his room and being upset seems too much for either of us to bear.

“This is actually, properly, beautiful,” Dev says quietly, looking around at the coastline. There’s a tall cliff face to our backs, the crumbled evidence of centuries of erosion laying at our feet, and we scrabble over the rocks to get to the water’s edge. “How did you find this?”

“Snow,” I tell him. “He burst it open last year, and he and his pack seem to have cleared out a trail. It would appear that this year’s adventure includes selkies.”

“Selkies?” Niall perks up. “As in, naked, beautiful women who just lounge around waiting for you?”

Dev seems more interested now too. Crowley, I hope I’m not going to have to pretend to be intrigued by the idea of selkies. Aside from the woman part, I don’t really get it. They’re seals. Isn’t that basically beastiality?

“Snow described them a bit teethier,” I say, and their interest immediately dies.

We pick a spot, nestled between two large rocks, and I light a fire in my hand and turn it into a bonfire. Dev produces his mobile from his pocket and turns on The Killers, which is a concession to Niall and I, because this is the only band the three of us can agree on. Dev mumbles along to  _Mr. Brightside_  (somehow, after all this time, he still hasn't learned the words) and then, to my immense surprise, Niall pulls out a clear bag from his pocket.

“I was going to save this for Dev’s birthday, but…” he says, trailing off as he opens it and shakes out three crude looking cigarettes.

“Where did you get that?” I ask sharply. 

“Same place you did, I expect,” Niall says, scrunching up his nose. “Asked me if you were going to be back at all this year.”

Dev shoots me an extremely disapproving look, and I have the decency to try to look ashamed.

“No,” I say. “That was just a phase. I’ve moved on.”

“Oh,” Niall says, his voice dropping a bit. “Pity. Well. Do you guys mind if I…?”

I shake my head, and Dev shakes his as well, though a bit reluctantly, and Niall holds out one badly rolled joint eagerly.

“Give us a light, then,” he says, and I create a small spark in my hand that leaps onto the joint. The paper catches, the end glows crimson in the darkness of the night, and Niall leans back and studies it.

“Don’t breathe too deep, and try to hold it in before you release,” I tell him after a pause. He smiles at me appreciatively, then takes a stuttering inhale. He sputters and coughs and smoke goes everywhere, and Dev has to lean over to whack him on the back to keep him from choking. I delicately pluck the joint from his fingers while he doubles over and coughs, and I look at it. 

This shit is partially why I’m fighting with Fiona. It’s why I lived in a shaking haze for two months last year. Though, I suppose that wasn’t really the weed’s fault. It was just a factor. There was other shit going on, and the weed always helped me just… relax. I’m not really high strung right now, but there is a small twinge when I think about the fact that I’m going to have to see Fiona at the funeral, and that I’m going to have to deal with this thing between us, and I’m going to have to admit that I really, really want it to be gone.

I take a slow inhale, hold the smoke in, and let it out in one fluid motion.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” Niall breathes, wiping small tears from his eyes as he sits up. 

“Practise,” I say with a shrug. Dev’s dark eyes follow my hand as I pass it back to Niall, and he lets out a sigh so heavy the earth might have shook.

“Alright, hand it over then,” he says, holding out his hand. Niall and I glance at each other.

“You really don’t have to,” I say as Niall goes, “No one cares if you don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m not being peer pressured,” Dev snaps. “Want me to sign a fucking consent form? Hand it over.”

“I thought I was the one who had to be corrupted,” Niall says, handing my cousin the blunt. Dev holds it between to fingers and inspects it carefully, then puts it between his lips, takes a deep toke, and exhales in one fluid motion. No tears or coughs. 

“Aleister fucking—” Niall breathes beside me. Dev blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head and smiling. “Absolutely nothing.”

The warm weight settles on us quickly, beating back the chill of the nighttime wind, and we lie on our backs and stare up at the sky.

“Do you think the selkies will eat us?” Niall whispers from beside me.

“Do you see any of them around?” Dev snaps back.

“It’s fine,” I say, even though I’m not entirely confident of that. The selkies might not be a danger, but Fiona’s stories are echoing in my ears. But still. If Snow and his merry band of misfits have been coming down here all term, surely it’s safe. Right?

I turn off Dev’s phone and turn mine on, and Niall whoops as I spell it to play Led Zeppelin louder, and we talk and fight and laugh until we fall asleep, my head against Dev’s ankles, Niall’s legs draped over Dev’s lap, to the soft sounds of the ocean and  _All of My Love._

It’s freezing when I wake up. It’s morning — the sun is up, but barely — and a seagull is screaming in the distance, the roar of the ocean somehow louder. My mouth takes like shit and my head is heavy as I turn to the side and blink until Dev’s sleeping form solidifies. I sit up, brushing sand off of me, and look around. 

Niall is standing at the water’s edge, staring out into the distance. 

It takes me a few moments to get to my feet — Crowley, I hate sand — and I tuck my hands into my pockets and pull my jacket closer as I head down to meet him. I’m just wearing a standard black peacoat these days. It’s warmer than the jean jacket, I suppose, and it looks distinguished, but I don’t love it. It doesn’t seem entirely me.

“Morning,” I say to him. Fuck, I wish I had a cup of tea. Niall stays silent. I suppose we’re doing that manly silence thing where we stare out into nature and derive some kind of meaningful experience from it, which I’ve never really fully understood.

“It’ll be alright,” I say, stuntedly, because I’ve no real idea what to say in this position. Niall doesn’t even acknowledge me, just keeps staring out to sea. There’s a small island — probably more like a jetty or a reef — not too far from shore, with two lone trees on it. It’s the only thing around, and it occurs to me that this is the stretch of water Snow is probably trying to cross. Whatever he wants is probably on that island. 

I take a small step back from the water’s edge. 

“You should come stay with me this summer,” I try again. “Either in Hampshire or London. I bet I could get Dev over as well.”

Silence. 

I let him have it. It’s not hurting anything, and I guess if this is how he wants to mourn, far be it from me to dictate that. But the sun is getting higher in the sky, and we really should be getting back.

“Come on,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think Pritchard is making—”

My words die in my throat as Niall finally turns to look at me, and I take a full step back. It’s only a moment — a second, even — but his eyes are entirely black.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his slack face growing lively in the space of a blink, his eyes completely normal. “Baz?”

I stare at him. Did I even see anything? Was it just some weird trick of the light? He seems completely normal now, it was only a second, maybe I—

“Nothing,” I say, clearing my throat and pulling my hand back to shove inside my pocket. “Nothing at all. Come on, let’s get back to school.”

We rouse an unwilling Dev and throw sand over the fire pit, and we scramble back up the beach toward the cove we came out of. Something uncomfortable is pricking at the back of my neck, making my hairs stand up, making my jaw ache, but I don’t look back. If there’s something back there, I don’t want to know.

 

***

 

The silence in the car is oppressive. I turned on The Ramones when I got in, in an attempt to cut through some of the tension, but it’s not working. If anything, it’s just making it worse. Joey’s voice is grating on me.

Everything about this day has been awful. Fiona and I barely even spoke at the funeral, and she showed up with Professor Hollow, of all people. They didn’t stand near each other though — I guess Hollow knows some of Niall’s family, because he stood with one of his cousins and Fiona stuck near Malcolm and me. 

Dev and I wanted to be with Niall during the service, but every time we spoke to him it was like he wasn’t even there. During the entire funeral he just stood, completely blank, his eyes tilted down at the ground like he had no idea what was going on. He didn’t snap back to attention until the pyre started going. 

It’s raining and miserable and depressing and I can’t help but feel that I should still be back there, with Niall, instead of here, in Fiona’s car, suffering through the most awkward silence of my life.

I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I’m not sure if I’m fully ready for this, but Malcolm pulled me aside after the funeral and bent his head conspiratorially, and gave me that look that I  _hate_  because  _I_ make that look. 

“I want you to ride back with Fiona,” he had said. I felt like my stomach was going to come up through my throat, and I was about to argue when he unleashed the glare. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I want you to fix it. Your mother would want you to fix it.”

And I can’t very well argue with that, now can I? He’s right. My mother would have hated for me to be fighting with Fiona. Between him and Niall’s emotional blackmail, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.

So here I am, sitting in Fiona’s MG, speeding down some Irish backroad, both of us dressed criminally well in our black funeral clothes, listening to  _California Sun_ , which is far too cheery for this day. I should say something. I should just clear my throat and say something, and get it out in the air, but the problem is that I’m a bit of a coward. I’m fine with that, though. My cowardice has treated me well. 

Right now it feels like a rope around my neck.

I clear my throat and prepare to say something, but Fiona, bless her, beats me to it.

“So I’ve got a theory,” she says casually, rolling down her window, despite the drizzle, and lighting a cigarette. “Feel free to stop me if I’m wrong. But I don’t think I am.”

I don’t say anything, and hold my breath while I wait for her to continue.

“I’m thinking I caught you on a bad night last term. Charlie had said you were looking peaky. Then over the summer, your dad says you’re in great health. Good mood. Spent a lot of time in the woods, though.”

Well, fuck. I’m fairly sure I know where this is going. 

“So I’m thinking that little freak out was about something much deeper than the Chosen One. And that the weed wasn’t some little act of rebellion, but rather a fucked up, ill-advised way of taking care of your little problem. Because it’s gotten bigger, hasn’t it?”

I stare down at my feet, stretched out in the cramped front seat of her car, and nod.

“How much bigger are we talking?”

“Substantially,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m… I have to drink now. Regularly.”

Fiona nods grimly. She expected this, clearly. She doesn’t look surprised. She just looks angry.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” she asks. She’s not shouting, but her voice is dangerously low. “Why did you let us scream at each other, instead of just telling me? Why did you let us stop talking for seven fucking months? I could have helped you. I was supposed to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” I bite back. “I have it under control.”

“You might not need help,” Fiona says, flicking her cigarette out of the window and rolling it back up aggressively, “but I wanted to help you. Fuck, Baz. I wanted to be there. I never wanted to have you cut me out of your life and run away back to fucking Malcolm. You ran away from home, kid. Do you realise that? You tossed me aside.”

“You’re making it sound like I had some kind of childish fit,” I snap, turning to stare out my window at the passing sheep. “You’re acting like I’m being some kind of martyr, and that’s not what happened.”

“Then what happened?” she shouts, slapping the steering wheel. “Because from my seat it’s looking pretty fucking clear.”

I take a breath. Then another. Then I turn to look at her, close my eyes, and try to squeeze out all the courage I can muster. I jut out my chin and I square my shoulders. Snow’s fighting stance.

“I’m gay.”

Fiona blinks, and doesn’t take her eyes off the road.

“I’m gay,” I repeat. “And you spat it at me like a slur. When I said I didn’t want to kill someone, you called me gay.”

Fiona is still silent, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly they’re almost white.

“So that’s what was happening,” I continue, my voice low. “I was turning into a vampire and realising I was gay. And the person who I never doubted — the person who I always knew would be fine with both of those things — used it against me. That’s why I went to Malcolm’s.”

Fiona leans forward to look out of her mirror, then steers into a pull off alongside a low stone wall. Several sheep blink at us through the drizzle, and she turns to me.

“Being gay is properly punk,” she says finally.

I snap.

“ _Being gay is properly punk_?” I choke. “Is that seriously your response?”

My voice is cracking out of some fucked up combination of puberty and disbelief, and my words are getting higher and higher pitched.

“What do you want me to say?” she shouts back. “That I’m the world’s biggest bitch and that I’ve royally cocked this up?”

I nod emphatically.

“Yeah, that would be a start.”

She sighs, pulling one hand to her forehead and running her fingers through her hair, mussing up her careful style as she curls her white streak. Her fingernails — black, always black — have been bit down to nubs. I haven’t seen her do that in years.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it reverberates throughout the car. I think that’s probably the first time Fiona has ever apologised in her entire life. “Fuck,” she says, slapping the steering wheel again. “I wish Nat was here. She was so good at these things, she always knew what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I answer. My limbs feel like lead. “It’s done, it’s happened. Now you know.”

“No,” she says, then again, with more feeling, “ _no_. It’s not done. Fuck. I don’t care that you’re gay, Baz. I don’t care that you’re a vampire. I just wanted to be there for you. I wanted you to come to me with this shit. I wanted you to be with family when you went through this.”

“I’ve been with Malcolm—” I start, but Fiona cuts me off.

“ _Family_ ,” she says again. “Me. It’s you and me, Baz. It always has been, and it was always supposed to be. I hate that I ruined that.”

“You didn’t  _ruin_ ,” I start, but she scoffs. Okay. Maybe she did ruin it.

“I’m doing better now,” I say instead, quietly. “And Malcolm’s a good sort. He didn’t press. But…” I swallow. “It’s not the same as being home.”

The car is silent. The rain taps against the windscreen and the sheep bleat and a lorry far too large for this road drives by us and honks its horn.

“If I promise to stop being such a twat, will you come home? For Christmas?” Fiona asks.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I say, but my heart is beating in time to  _I Wanna Be Sedated_. I have a choice. I could say no and stand by my outrage and hurt, and make sure she knows just how badly she’s fucked up.

Or I could say yes and go home.

I should just say yes and go home.

“I want to get Mordelia some proper band shirts for Christmas,” I say. “Any suggestions?”

Fiona lets out a long exhale and reaches over for a fleeting moment and squeezes my knee, and I feel like my chest is about to well up and burst. It’s a weird feeling, and the emotion of the moment makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, but then she takes her hand back and it’s like nothing happened as she drums the fingers of one hand and reaches over to turn up the stereo with the other one.

“She strikes me as a Misfits kind of kid, don’t you think?”

I sniff and turn toward the window, rolling it down a bit to let the cool air run through the car. 

“You’re a monster,” I say. I’m rewarded with a cackle, and Fiona puts the car back in drive.

“You know, boyo, I think you’re right. I’m the fucking worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS MENTIONED:**
> 
> [The Only Living Boy In New York](https://open.spotify.com/track/5MbXzXGbqobR8xPVPs8OXA?si=4_Vvo0YhQgybYiO0Gk9_PA) -  Simon & Garfunkle
> 
> [Cecilia](https://open.spotify.com/track/6QhXQOpyYvbpdbyjgAqKdY?si=k9dt9MJzRgqn6XqXCn7J8A) - Simon & Garfunkle
> 
> [Debaser](https://open.spotify.com/track/3FzKPS0oVknVlCW3PhxIHl?si=fNhMaTlrSzCPyGhlkcoO4Q) - The Pixies
> 
> [Bridge Over Troubled Water](https://open.spotify.com/track/6l8EbYRtQMgKOyc1gcDHF9?si=wCx4jbRqQZuCWzY_HOhsDA) - Simon & Garfunkle
> 
> [Take Another Little Piece of My Heart  ](https://open.spotify.com/track/7v3tRmz9ExeiY2HKFbIXA8?si=H__S8YL6QoahCOVQwyGuQw)\- Dusty Springfield
> 
> [Mr. Brightside](https://open.spotify.com/track/7oK9VyNzrYvRFo7nQEYkWN?si=M7z0StIbSNmMTn-xo9Vkvg) - The Killers
> 
> [All My Love](https://open.spotify.com/track/6lrh9jZ1xoMwoErgPSj2rY?si=eYW-_7djTeaPZwQexFuDcA) - Led Zeppelin
> 
> [California Sun](https://open.spotify.com/track/4dyBuBbYZj1iiK0ywYjYzT?si=7HLQN5TkTFeFB-vr5Vs7FA) - The Ramones
> 
> [I Wanna Be Sedated](https://open.spotify.com/track/6vvmYYUvGXtZLU8msxKvzF?si=k4L8rzcbQCeNlan_lbi6BA) - The Ramones


	6. Pretty Vacant | Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR FOUR, PART 2: Selkies, demons, heavy handed foreshadowing, Christmas traditions, the education of Agatha Wellbelove and triple chin selfies. Also some more demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **THANK YOU TO:**  
> 
> @great-merlins-beard for all your help, you're a true warrior.
> 
> You can check out the [ **'rebel rebel'**](https://spoti.fi/2vgJ2TT) playlist on Spotify!
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**  [Pretty Vacant](https://open.spotify.com/track/2mKj8Em0GLFu8I78yM1CfU?si=Kp9bJowzQpWIB_HGWzD2Rg) — The Sex Pistols
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs and albums mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:** Thanks for sticking in there with me. You're all true champs and everytime I see a new comment I get unbearably happy. Thank you for supporting this fic!
> 
> _"An exorcism scene in the fourth book, Simon Snow and the Selkies Four, triggered boycotts among American Christian groups in 2008." -_ _Fangirl_
> 
> \- I hope this chapter is worth boycotting. - 

“We’re not doing this,” I say, pausing in the doorway of the living room. My arms are loaded down with popcorn and drinks, and I have half a mind to turn around and leave.

“Yes we are,” Fiona says, patting at the sofa. “I had this all planned out. We were going to have a whole summer of it, but _someone_ was a sketchy little shit and kept things from me, so now we have to shove it all into your break. Now sit.”

I frown at her. It had been awkward, admittedly, when I called Malcolm and told him I was thinking of spending break with Fiona. He’d requested we come over for at least Christmas day, and had pushed for more, but Fiona had put her foot down. She told him we had things to do; stuff to catch up on.

I didn’t realise she had meant a movie marathon.

“I’m not doing this,” I repeat, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Baz,” Fiona says, putting on a serious tone as she tucks her legs up. She’s wearing yoga pants and a Ramones sweatshirt, and the contradiction of the two is giving me a headache. “You need to know your culture.”

“My culture?” I sputter. “ _Interview With A Vampire_ is not my _culture_.”

“Oh,” Fiona says, chewing on her lip. “Not gay enough? I have _The Lost Boys_.”

My face lights up brighter than the Christmas tree in the corner.

“So we’re joking about it now, huh?” I ask. “Just skipping right by support and taking a sharp turn into mocking?”

“I don’t know any other way,” she responds, handing me a pair of socks. I hate that she knows me so well. My feet are actually freezing.

“Just put on the fucking movie,” I mutter, coming to sit beside her. I don’t give her the popcorn though. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Speaking of Brad Pitt,” she says, pulling up the movie, “I spoke to Franny. I think we’ve a solution to your dietary problems.”

I scrunch up my face and am about to ask who the hell Franny is when Fiona holds up her hand.

“Cook Pritchard. Your cousin? Anyway. She’s going to start keeping a stock of pigs blood in the back cooler, and she’s going to give you a key so you can come and go at your convenience. And we’ve done the **_ix-nay_** , so there’s no risk of her ratting you out.”

“You—what?” I ask, my jaw dropping as I pause in the middle of putting socks on. No more hunting?

“Pick up your tongue, kiddo,” Fiona says, snatching the popcorn from me. “We set this up ages ago. She was meant to start doing it as soon as you needed it, but since _someone didn’t tell me_ —”

“Are you serious?” I sputter. No more sneaking off to the Woods. No more killing bunnies. No more stressing about having to go back down into the catacombs. No more creeping around. “Fiona, that’s—”

“I know, I know,” she says, waving. “I’m brilliant and beautiful and you’re sorry for being such a shit about this. Happy Christmas.”

I stare at her.

“Oh, and one more thing.” She turns around and digs through the drawer of the table next to the sofa, and pulls out something small and flips it to me. I catch it easily and look down at the little piece of metal in my hand. It’s a flag pin. A rainbow flag pin.

“Wear it, don’t wear it, your choice,” she says with a shrug. “Just don’t put it on that poncy fucking peacoat of yours, alright?”

I grip the pin in my hand so hard it almost leaves an indent, and nod. This is… very Fiona. This is as supportive as she can ever possibly get, and I’m blisteringly angry that this isn’t how it went all along. This is how it should have been.

“You’re getting disgustingly sentimental in your old age,” I say with a sneer, shoving the pin in my pocket. I’m not ready to wear it — not yet. But someday, maybe.

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Fiona groans, turning up the television sound. “I’m about to die.”

“Please hold off for a bit,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off the back of the sofa and draping it over my shoulders as I pull my feet up to sit cross legged. “I can only do about one funeral a year, and I’ve hit my quota.”

“Oh, I don’t need a funeral,” Fiona says. “Just throw me on the bar of the Hope and Anchor and set me on fire. Take the whole place down with me, let punk truly die.”

“I’ll jot that down,” I drawl. “Not me, though. I want a big funeral. Lots of splashy photos of me, huge crowd, buckets of tears. I want you to play _Burning Down the House_ as they set my casket ablaze.”

“Noted,” Fiona hums. Then leans sideways and drops her head on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re home. Not Christmas without you.”

I’m trying to keep a smile off of my face, because Crowley, I missed this. I missed her. Just being home, sitting on our weird red sofa watching a film. It’s not like this at Malcolm’s house. It’s nice and spacious there, but it’s not homey. It’s not comfortable. No one makes jokes or blasts music or wakes me up on Christmas Eve with the Vandals’ Christmas album and the smell of Tesco tear and share cinnamon buns.

“Yes, yes, I’m very cheery,” I say, patting her on the head before tilting my own to rest against hers. “Now shut up, Brad Pitt is on.”

“I knew he was your type, you big poofter,” Fiona snorts, and I elbow her and take the remote to turn up the volume.

“Fi,” I say as imperiously as I can. “Brad Pitt is everyone’s type.”

 

***

 

“We need to do something. He can’t stay like this.”

Dev grunts as he sits up, his hands cupped behind his head, and nods.

“I agree,” he says, laying back on the ground before sitting up again. “He’s been quiet as hell. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, what does he like?” I say, finishing my own sit up beside Dev. I glance to the other side of the pitch, where Niall is talking to Coach Mac. “He likes food. And music. And… weed?”

“He likes pranks,” Dev grunts. “He’s always itching to get one on the Mage.”

I exhale, long and slow. I have more stamina than the average person, because of my Bela Lugosi problem, but even vampires aren’t impervious to the pain of sit ups and crunches. I may have super speed, but it doesn’t give me abs.

“I’m fresh out of ideas, though,” I whisper. “Aside from just… killing him.”

I hadn’t really planned to try to mess with the Mage this year. I’ve been trying to keep my head down and focus on my studies. But Niall needs this more than I do.

“Marcus keeps trying to suggest we give his computer a porn virus,” Dev grunts. I roll my eyes and do another two sit ups.

“That’s so cliche,” I whine.

“He also suggested changing the autocorrect on his devices so that The Mage becomes Davy Sheepfucker.”

A sputter of laughter escapes me and I quickly silence myself as Niall glances over, one eyebrow raised.

“That’s extremely offensive to Welsh people,” I say, my tone even.

“But it’s kind of funny, right?” Dev asks, finishing my train of thought.

“What if we just did an onslaught?” I whisper. “Just every prank we can think of, rolled up into one day of pure hell.”

“Isn’t his birthday sometime this month?” Dev says. My lip curls into a sneer. It’s perfect. The absolute perfect present.

“Dev,” I say with a grunt. “You’re brilliant.”

It takes us the full two weeks to plan, and Niall throws himself into it. It’s more enthusiasm than I’ve seen from him at all this term. Ever since we got back he’s been silent and withdrawn and prone to long bouts of staring at the wall. It’s been making Dev and I nervous as shit, and I can’t help thinking of that morning at the beach, when his eyes went black and it was like he wasn’t even there. I try to shake off the thought; this isn't anything magical. It’s just plain old depression. I get it. So we give him space.

We ditched the idea of an onslaught of birthday pranks, because throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks isn’t exactly our style. I’m a Pitch, after all. There are standards.

So we opted for a campaign of terror.

It started by sending the Mage a different note every day leading up to his birthday. Some were just a countdown, left on a sticky note on the bonnet of his car or pinned to his classroom door. Another, which we left in his staff mailbox, just read “You smell nice when you sleep.”

(That one was Marcus’s idea.) (I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t very intimidating and was actually just really creepy and completely off the mark of what we’re trying to accomplish, but he insisted it was hysterical. He’s crucial to our plan, so we let him have it.) (I am starting to be a bit uncomfortable around Marcus now, though.)

Others were decidedly more foreboding — Dev sent him an anonymous email in Sanskrit reading “Three cheers for the birthday boy!” and exactly a week before his birthday, I had Fiona buy a burner mobile just so she could send him a text saying “ _seven days_.”

On the morning of his birthday I get called into Possibelf’s office and informed, in very strong language, that harassing a teacher is grounds for expulsion, and that if anything were to happen, she will be extremely disappointed in me. The Mage stays in his office all day, and, according to Cook Pritchard, specifically requested that Dev, Niall, and I were not on the schedule for dining hall duty.

“You’ve got him terrified,” Cook Pritchard says to me as I slip into the back of the kitchen to get my blood. We’ve developed a routine, wherein I take the blood and she turns around and pretends that she doesn’t know what I’m doing. I then take it into the back freezer, heat it up with a flame from my hand, drain in quickly, and throw the empty carton into the refuse. It’s shoddy playacting, and I prefer going when she’s not there, but sometimes I don’t have a choice. But it takes about five minutes out of my day, as opposed to dragging out the hunting process and navigating the Woods, so there are absolutely no complaints from me.

“Does he think we’re going to poison him or something?” I ask as she shoos me away from the coffee maker.

“Yes,” she says bluntly. “And I think we all know he’s not being irrational.”

This earns her a grin. I can’t help it.

I steal a cup of tea to wash down the blood, and then head to class to enact the next part of our plan.

Which is, nothing.

Ninety per cent of the enjoyment of this prank is the sheer build up and expectation.

Possibelf watches me all through class, and refuses to excuse me to use the restroom. Snow seems to have no idea what’s going on, because he turns around during Magick Words and stares at me.

 _“What did you do?”_ he mouths, but I just raise an eyebrow. He mouths it again, and I shake my head, feigning confusion. He rolls his eyes and huffs.

“What did you do?” he shouts across the classroom at me, and all heads snap up to stare at him. I force an expression of bewilderment on my face.

“...my homework?” I say, holding up a scrap of parchment. “There’s no need to shout, Snow.”

He and Possibelf look ready to pop.

By lunch, things are going even better. There’s a slight disturbance when the Minotaur finds Niall “loitering” by the stairway of the Weeping Tower, and he marches him back into the dining hall.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but hurry up and get to lunch,” the Minotaur says. Dev and I turn to watch as Niall just blinks up at him, his face completely blank.

“Is he okay?” Dev whispers.

“I think so?” I respond, looking at Niall. I can’t see his eyes. I keep finding myself looking at them, when he gets like this. But I need to stop trying to attribute his depression and fugue states to something sinister. Sometimes there’s no deeper plot. Sometimes people are just sad.

Niall blinks back into focus a moment later and stares up at the Minotaur in confusion.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, then hurries to his seat.

“Alright?” Dev asks, and Niall nods.

“Yeah, yeah. Just thought I’d give them a scare, finding me poking around near the Mage’s office,” he says, flashing us a weak smile. I’m fairly sure that he’s lying, but I don’t call him on it. What’s the point?

“Anyway,” I say, diverting the topic and hoping to wipe the overly concerned look off of Dev’s face, “do you have it?”

Niall nods.

“It’s in my room. Do you think it’ll work?”

“If Marcus manages not to cock it up,” I whisper back, then straighten up as Coach Mac wanders by and gives us the beady eye.

By dinnertime, the Mage has emerged from his office and deigned to join us in the dining hall, but he looks twitchy. His eyes barely leave my table for a moment, and whenever someone speaks to him, he jumps like he’s expecting to be shot.

It’s so much better than any prank we could have ever come up with.

“Crowley, could you two act normal?” Dev snaps at Niall and I halfway through dinner. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he gestures at our plates.

“Neither of you are eating. You look so sketchy. Why am I the only one eating?”

Annoyance flairs up. I’ve tried my best to side step the fact that I don’t eat around people because of my fangs, but of course Dev has noticed.

“Too excited,” Niall says. I nod. Sure. Let’s go with that excuse.

“Do we think Marcus is up to the task?” I say, effectively changing the subject as I watch Snow get up from his table for his customary after-dinner pudding and cup of tea.

“Honestly? No idea. But he’s so bloody eager to help, and he’s not on the Mage’s radar, so…”

Niall elbows me in the side and nods toward Snow.

“You’re up,” he hisses, and I push back from the table quickly, taking my full tea cup with me, and cross the room in several short steps. The best thing about Snow is that he’s a complete idiot; when there’s food in his hands, he’s dead to the world. So it’s extremely easy to just walk in his direction and wait for him to collide with me. Tea goes everywhere. Pudding ends up on the ground. Plates shatter.

“Could you be a bigger idiot?” I snap, holding up my arms to stare down at my tea-drenched front. Tea is dripping from the ends of Snow’s nose, and everyone is staring at us. Good.

“What are you _up to?_ ” Snow growls, just loud enough for me to hear as he wipes tea out of his eyes. “I know you’re doing _something_ , you’re never this clumsy.”

“I’m just trying to walk,” I respond, louder. “You’re the one who ran into me.”

“I know you’re doing something,” he insists again, and I throw my hands in the air. “You’re always doing something.”

“Why does everyone assume that! I’ve just been eating dinner!” I try to sound as exasperated and wronged as I possibly can, which is a bit hard, considering I’m extremely guilty of everything he’s accusing me of.

“Boys,” comes a sharp voice across the hall. “What’s going on?”

Snow’s head goes down immediately, his shoulders hunch.

“Nothing, sir,” he says. I blink. He looks like a whipped dog. He was ready to tear my throat out a minute ago, and the second the Mage shows up, he goes submissive. It’s horrifying.

“Just an accident,” I spit out through clenched teeth, deliberately not looking at our headmaster and his stupid fucking moustache. He deserves everything that’s coming to him and more.

“Make sure this gets cleaned up, Mr. Pitch,” the Mage says, and I glare at him sullenly as I pull my wand. To my immense delight, he almost flinches.

“ ** _Clean as a whistle_** **,** ” I say, and the mess disappears. The tea stops dripping off of Snow’s nose. I glance down at my wrist under the pretense of stowing my wand and sneak a glance at my watch. Just past six. Excellent. Marcus should be on his way back now, should have gotten out of the dumbwaiter and made his way to his seat during the excitement, and when the Mage and I turn around, he’ll be right there with a napkin—

But Marcus isn’t there.

Dev’s eyes are darting from side to side as I head back to the table, and Niall is shifting, and Marcus is nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” I hiss, not looking directly at my friends. Snow and the Mage are still in conference in the corner, Simon looking at the wall past the Mage’s shoulder and nodding at something. It’s startling, actually, to see their interactions from this angle. I always knew Snow was at the Mage’s beck and call, but this is something else. He seems… cowed. Blank. Like he’s just standing at attention, waiting for orders.

It makes my stomach churn.

By the end of dinner, Marcus is still nowhere to be seen.

“Do you think he got caught?” Niall whispers as we pile our dishes up for the students who have dish duty today.

“Nah, we would have been hauled in by now,” Dev says. “Maybe he went back to his room and is laying low.”

“Do you think Marcus is capable of laying low?” I bark back. I’m starting to get a bit antsy. We never should have trusted him with something as serious as this, but Dev, Niall and I were sure to be under strict observation. There was no way we were going to be able to get into the Mage’s office, not after everything we’ve pulled. He’s put up wards to specifically keep me out — I know that for sure, because I tried to get in last year for a prank, and I got barred. He’s probably added ones for Dev and Niall by now as well.

“Hello? Baz? Can you hear me? Baz? I think I’m stuck!”

The disembodied voice of my cousin floats down the hall toward us, and the three of us tense. The Mage is right there. He’s right there, and if he hears it—

I speed walk toward the cabinet where the dumbwaiter lets out, and I can hear the thumping noise.

“Hello? Anyone? Baz? I crawled out of his office through the vent and over to the dumbwaiter shaft, but it’s stuck and I—”

 _“_ ** _I said silence!_ ** ” I whisper, and the muffled noise of Marcus banging on the wall disappears.

“Mr. Pitch!” The Mage is staring me down. Fuck. Fuck. “What are you doing over there?”

“Nothing,” I say immediately, stepping away from the dumbwaiter door. But the Mage isn’t an idiot — Merlin, life would be easier if he was, but he isn’t — and he glares past me toward the door.

 **“** ** _Stick like glue_** **,”** I whisper, pointing my wand behind my back and praying that I’m as good with near silent spells as I think I am. I feel my magic course up, and I stuck my wand in the back of my trousers quickly.

“I just thought I heard something, but there’s no one here,” I say innocently. The Mage shoulders past me and jiggles at the dumbwaiter door, but it doesn’t open. I hold my breath. Please don’t try a counter spell. Please don’t try a counter spell.

“Back to your room, Mr. Pitch,” he says finally, stepping away from the door. I don’t sigh in relief — even though I want to. I just nod. Niall and Dev have fallen in next to me, and we all turn to make our way out of the Great Hall.

“Oh, happy birthday, sir,” I say, calling over my shoulder. The Mage looks like he’s about to blow. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

 

***

 

Some eighth years ended up letting Marcus out of the dumbwaiter a few hours later, once my spell had worn off. Everyone just assumed the kid had gotten shoved up there by some bully, and people generally felt bad for him, even if they also ridiculed him endlessly for getting stuck there. The official story was that he was playing hide and seek, and he didn’t take it any further, because we really didn’t want the Mage to find out.

At least he was successful.

Niall, Dev and I had summoned the imp demon in their dorm room the other day and had left it hidden in Niall’s closet to mature. It’s a tiny thing, a little whisp, and largely harmless. Imp demons are just tricksters; bloody annoying, but not malevolent. I wasn’t sure if it would work. I’ve only read theories about channelling imp spirits into electricity or technology, but I did my homework. From a theoretical standpoint, it should have worked.

It worked _so much better_ that I could ever have expected.

The first day after Marcus let the imp loose in the Mage’s computer, there was silence. We were worried it hadn’t worked.

But then. Then the imp got into his email.

All of the Mage’s personal emails — which largely seem to just be correspondence with the Coven, unfortunately, nothing juicy — got sent out, en masse, to everyone on his email list. There wasn’t much to be learnt from it, aside from where he custom orders his leggings from. (Farlows, for the record.) (Though I had always assumed he had some deal with Barbour.)

Then came the phantom calls. According to Fiona, who heard it from Professor Hollow, the imp started calling the Mage’s phone at all hours of the day and night, connecting him to people on the opposite side of the world or just pure noise. And when he stopped answering, the calls got more and more insistent until he finally threw his phone away.

A few days later, the Mage’s entire iCloud photo roll got emailed to the school, and half of the student body was late to class that day because were were busy going through picture after picture of… trees.

It was all wildly disappointing, to be honest, because I’d been hoping there would be at least a few selfies on there, but it was just books and trees and pictures of notes reminding him of meeting times. There was one bad photo of what looked like an old Watford yearbook photo of some girl I’ve never seen, and a handful of pictures of shutters on some cottage. The shutters were broken.

Riveting stuff.

I’ve always thought the Mage was a weirdo, but I never realised how _boring_ he is.

Dev, Niall and I were just about to congratulate ourselves on a cracking job well done, when the imp got loose. And spread.

The first sign of trouble was the flickering lights in the classrooms. Philippa Stainton went to plug in her laptop and got shocked, and the television in our Magick Words classroom turned on and off and reset itself three times when we were trying to watch _Monty Python_ for our cult-classic spells lesson.

Then students started getting emails linking them to weird, weird videos, and the Minotaur’s computer wouldn’t stop rickrolling him, and Snow couldn’t finish his Political Science essay because his word document just kept typing the lyrics to _Eye of the Tiger_ over and over and over.

Pretty much only Niall, Dev and I were immune from the imp’s mischief, and I think it’s just because it likes us. We did bring it into this world, after all. We’re like the three proud fathers of our own little demon.

After three weeks of terror culminating in everyone’s mobiles turning on to the front-facing camera mode and snapping horrifying pictures (which were then emailed to the entire school) (I actually saved a photo that went around of Snow, scowling with six double chins as he tried to open Bunce’s mobile) the Mage called a mandatory assembly.

We’ve only had one assembly during my time at Watford, in the second year after a Humdrum attack. The Mage pulled us all into the dining hall to tell us that the dark creature attacks were a result of the Humdrum, and that if something were to happen, there was an emergency plan in action that we should follow. No one ever actually follows it, but I suppose he had to try.

We’re all squeezed into the hall, everyone restless, waiting for the Mage to arrive and tell us what’s up. Everyone knows it’s about the imp — no one knows it’s an imp demon, per say, but everyone has figured out that something is up — and we’re just waiting for the Mage’s grand plan on how to fix it.

Fifteen minutes after the assembly was due to start, the Mage and Snow walk in. Snow is trailing behind him, his magic smoking a bit, and he has soot on his face and a bandage on his hand. He sits down at the front, next to Bunce, and whispers something to her as the Mage clears his throat.

“Hello everyone,” he says, that annoyingly perky voice on. Sometimes the Mage speaks like everything is amusing to him, but if you look at his eyes, he seems angry. “As you all have noticed, we’ve been having a bit of a problem with our technology lately. I believe that this was another attack by the Humdrum.”

Whispers spread through the school and Niall makes a choking noise. I want to shush him, but I’m pretty surprised myself.

“Luckily, Simon and I were able to contain the problem — an imp demon, as it turns out — and Simon neutralised the threat,” he says, nodding toward Snow. I wonder what he means by neutralised. He should have been able to just extract it and set it loose in a pond or something, but judging by Snow’s appearance, I’m guessing they just blew up the Mage’s Macbook.

There’s a momentary pang of sadness over the death of my demon son, but it’s quickly pushed aside by the fact that the Mage thinks I’m the Humdrum.

“However,” the Mage barks, cutting across the flurry of whispers filling the dining hall. “This has highlighted a very serious security breach, one which the Humdrum might use again in the future for a more sinister motive. As a result, starting next school year, all technological devices will be banned from the premises, including laptops and mobile phones.”

“What?” Niall shouts, but his exclamation is swallowed up in a sea of similar protestations. Getting rid of our laptops? How am I going to watch Netflix? And no mobile phones? What about my music? What about texting Fiona? This is awful. This is absolutely awful.

This is entirely my fault.

Dev, Niall and I turn completely white as we realise the immense magnitude of our fuck up.

“He thinks we’re the Humdrum,” Dev hisses, and I shake my head.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, sitting back in my seat and clearing my throat. “This was clearly a Humdrum attack. We have no reason to believe otherwise, right lads?”

This can absolutely never get out. As of this moment, all knowledge of the prank is effectively erased. I’ve never heard of it. I don’t even know what an imp demon is.

Dev narrows his eyes and Niall stares at me, then nods slowly.

“Right…” he says. “Right. Humdrum.”

“Tragic, really,” I respond, turning my eyes to the front.

“And Marcus?”

I sniff.

“A bit of an over-exaggerator, that one. I think his time in the dumbwaiter was really traumatic for him, don’t you? Filled his head with all kinds of ideas.”

Dev is shaking his head in humourous disbelief, facing toward the front of the dining all again, but Niall hasn’t taken his eyes off me. For a minute I think he’s blanking out again, going into one of his staring bouts, but then he just laughs.

“You’re evil,” he says. I nod.

“That’s what they tell me, yes.”  


***

 

I’m covered in mud and grass and sweat and I think I would kill a man for a shower right now.

Practice was _awful_. Everyone was playing terribly. Niall just zoned out the whole time and didn’t save a single goal, and despite the fact that there is no tackling in footy, a sixth year on the team took me down four separate times. If I were paranoid, I’d think he knew I was responsible for the electronics ban. I could have tackled him back, but I don’t let myself do that. It’s not right, to use my advantage. So I just had to take it.

All I want is to go back to Mummers and become one with my shower, but I need to feed. I’ve pushed it too long — my hands are shaking a bit, and I’m so tired that I know if I don’t feed now, I wont have the energy to get up and go later.

It’s a Saturday, which is when Pritchard takes off and students do a buffet for dinner, so the dining hall is almost completely empty as I use my key to slip into the back. No one is around, so I’m able to unlock the large refrigerator where she keeps the blood, heat it up, and drink it without even hiding in the walk in freezer. (Which is a relief, because I _hate_ eating in the freezer. It’s miserable. I hate being cold.)

Stashing the detritus, I slip out the back door and hurry my way back to Mummers, feeling substantially better.

My room is empty when I get there, so I turn on The Smiths (they’re my feel-good music) and throw myself into the shower, washing the muck and grime (and a little blood, in my hair, I’m humiliated to discover) away and loitering under the hot water. I’ve just decided to stay there for the rest of my life when I hear the shouting.

“We need to think seriously about what to do with it!” comes Bunce’s voice, piercing through the bathroom wall. I sigh. How the hell does she manage to get in here?

“And we will, but first I need to get this off, because it’s starting to kind of burn.”

Snow, then.

“You too, Aggie. You need to get that off.”

Wellbelove is here too? Aleister fucking Crowley. There goes my shower.

I turn off the water and get out, drying myself quickly and stepping into my sweatpants and t-shirt before I exit the bathroom. All three members of the Scooby Gang turn to stare at me.

“Bunce. Wellbelove. Fancy seeing you here,” I say, running a towel through my hair. Wellbelove turns a deep shade of pink, but Bunce just stares at me. All three of them are soaked through — Bunce’s hair is weighed down, and Wellbelove looks like a drowned rat. Snow is in a state of half undress, and appears to be covered in some kind of black, tarry substance. One whiff tells me it’s blood.

I don’t want to know whose.

“You’re not meant to be here,” I say, looking away from the white t-shirt that’s soaked through and sticking to Snow’s chest. Bunce is trying to hide something behind her back, and Wellbelove seems to have a bit of blood on her as well. What the fuck have they been up to?

“We’ll be out of here in a few,” Bunce says primly. “But I wouldn’t rat us out, if I were you.”

“Oh?” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Bunce has an atrociously smug look on her face as she meets my eyes.

“Because I know what good friends you are with my brother,” she says cooly.

I turn as pink as Wellbelove as Snow stares between Penny and me.

“What?” he says, his mouth open in confusion. “Premal? They aren’t friends—”

“Just get cleaned up,” I snap, taking my book and sitting on my bed. “You’re dripping water and blood over everything.”

Snow doesn’t need to be told twice before he finishes peeling off his jumper. He digs inside his wardrobe and throws a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie at Bunce, then grabs some for himself.

“Aggie, I don’t think I have anything for you,” he says, scrunching up his face. “It’s just, you’re so tiny, and I don’t have many—”

Wellbelove looks ready to slaughter him.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. You two just get changed. I can go back to my room.”

Bunce and Snow disappear into the bathroom without another look back, and Wellbelove looks ready to blow. I don’t think there’s anything romantic going on there — Bunce is far too intelligent to fall for someone like Snow — but I think it is jealousy I see on Wellbelove’s face.

“Please let it be known that some of us have manners,” I say, unfolding my legs as I stand up and head to my wardrobe. I dig out a pair of old joggers that must be from first year, and rustle up an old Sex Pistols shirt that hasn’t fit me in a year and which I haven’t worn since I was eleven. I really need to clean out my wardrobe between summers. I hand them both to her and she stares at me.

“Go ahead, I’ll turn around,” I say, turning to face the window. “You can use the towel on my chair to dry your hair.”

I hear a flurry of movement and the sound of wet clothes hitting the floor, and a moment later Wellbelove clears her throat.

“You can turn around,” she says, and I do. She looks… odd. In a good way. But I’ve never seen her looking anything other than perfect and feminine, and with her blonde hair wet and mussed from the towel and my old band t-shirt on, she looks decidedly sharper. I grin.

“How do I look?” she asks, then blushes again.

“Like Debbie Harry.”

She frowns.

“Who is that?”

“Who is — Crowley,” I say, shaking my head. Don’t these people know _anything?_ “Hold on.”

I cross to my record player and scroll through my ipod until I find Blondie. I put on _One Way Or Another_ and turn back to her. She has her face scrunched up and I think she’s making a disgusted look before I realise she’s laughing.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” she asks. I shrug.

“I like music. Don’t you?”

Wellbelove runs her hands over her arms and shrugs.

“I don’t know,” she says, sounding a bit sad. “Sometimes I don’t know if I like anything.”

A heavy silence falls over the room and I tilt my head to look at Wellbelove properly. I’ve never really spared a second thought for her, aside from as the girl who triggered my Bela Lugosi problem. I don’t think I know anything about her, actually. I know everything about Snow, and a fair amount about Bunce, but Wellbelove… well. She’s pretty. And her family is connected. And that’s about all I know.

“Are you cold?” I ask, turning back to my wardrobe in an attempt to diffuse some of the tension in the room. “Here, put this on.”

I pull out my old jean jacket, the one with Bowie on the back, and hand it to her. Her eyes go big.

“Feel free to keep it. It doesn’t fit me anymore.”

She pulls it on and settles it over her shoulders, and it fits almost perfectly, she’s so thin. She rolls the sleeves a bit, and then looks up to grace me with a beaming, stunning smile, and I understand for the first time why all the boys in our year are mad about her. She truly is lovely.

The door to the bathroom bangs open and Snow and Bunce burst out of it. Bunce is swimming in a pair of rolled up Watford sweatpants, and Snow looks substantially cleaner. Both of them pause and blink at Wellbelove.

“Baz gave me some clothes,” she says. (Unnecessarily.) Snow nods, and I watch him swallow. He seems stunned.

“You look… good,” he says, swallowing again. His eyes dart to me, then back to Wellbelove. You could cut the sexual tension in this room with a fucking knife.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, can we get on with the plan?” Bunce says, and Snow tears his eyes from Wellbelove. I could kiss Bunce. Maybe it’s all just too heterosexual for me, but I absolutely hate the way Snow was just staring at Wellbelove.  

“What exactly happened to you three?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Fell in the water,” Bunce says as Wellbelove chirps, “Almost drowned,” and Snow adds, “Killed some selkies.”

“I take it you never figured out that walking on water spell then,” I drawl, bending over to collect my books. I’m not really interested in staying here whilst the magelings plot whatever hijinx or drama or world saving plan they’re going to come up with next.

“No, actually, it worked,” Snow says, turning to fix me with a grin. A wide, shit eating grin. He’s never smiled at me like that before. Today is just a day full of firsts, apparently. “I got the idea from one of your songs — Simon & Garfunkle? I used **_bridge over troubled water_** **.** ”

“Then why are you soaked?” I say, pushing down the small bubble of excitement rising in my chest over the fact that my idea worked, and that Snow actually caught on.

“Long story,” Bunce says. “But Simon was brilliant. His spell worked perfectly.” Her voice is practically dripping with pride, and she shoots Snow an overly sappy look.

Fuck a nine toed troll, there’s too much emotion in this room right now.

“Congratulations on your first ever success,” I sneer, even though I’m actually, properly proud of him for getting it right. Fuck, that’s a weird feeling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

I grab my books and pull on my jumper and shoulder past Snow, who’s looking miffed enough to blow, and yank open the door.

“Don’t forget your mobile!” Wellbelove calls, and I pause, turning as she jumps on my bed and reaches up to the window seat to unplug my phone. She hurries across the room and presses it into my hands.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I say, uncomfortable under her large smile and the heavy glare Snow is sending my way. “Well. Night.”

I close the door behind me with a sharp click and hurry down the stairs to Dev and Niall’s room, knocking once before I open the door.

“You will not believe what is going on in my room right now. If you get a chance to see Wellbelove, she’s—” I stop, the words drying up in my throat as my eyes land on Dev, kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room, his hand on Niall’s shoulder.

Niall is sitting, staring at the window, his face slack, his eyes entirely black.

Dev looks up at me, his face a mask of terror and panic.

“We need to get help,” he says.

I nod and swallow. My face feels numb. My brain has stopped. Everything has stopped.

“Right,” I say, my voice dull. “I’ll get Snow.”

“Why Snow? Why get him? We need a teacher!” Dev barks, his eyes wild.

“I think that whatever is wrong with him started the night at the beach,” I say slowly, not taking my eyes of Niall. He looks like a husk. He looks like a shell. His black eyes aren’t blinking. “Snow has been up and down that beach all term. He might know something.”

Dev shakes his head.

“No. I don’t want him near him. I don’t trust him. He’ll probably blow him up or something.”

“I’m not going to let him do magic on him,” I snap. “But do you have a better idea? Rather than going to the Mage? I could call Fiona but she won’t get here for hours.”

“I don’t like it,” Dev says. His voice is small. He sounds terrified. “I really don’t like it.”

“I don’t either,” I respond, pulling my hand through my hair. “But I think… I think it’s our best bet. I think we need to trust him.”

“Do _you_ trust him?” Dev asks. He’s pinning me to the floor with his gaze, and I wish I could tell what was going on in his mind. Do I trust Snow? Do I trust him with my best friend’s life?

“Yeah,” I say finally. “Yeah, I do.”

 

***

 

“Did he go to the island? Did he get in the water?”

I shake my head. Bunce has asked this question five times already, and the answer is still “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.” Dev kicks at a wall in frustration as Wellbelove sits in the corner biting her lip.

“The Mage told you to avoid the water. He said it was dangerous,” Bunce says to Snow, as if explaining something. I’m completely lost.

“We should go to the Mage,” Snow says, but even he seems hesitant.

“He’s not here,” Wellbelove says from the corner. “We don’t even know when he’ll be back.”

“Why is it that the Mage is always conveniently absent when there’s a crisis?” I snarl. Snow glares at me and opens his mouth to retort, when Bunce sighs.

“I think we need Micah. I think he’ll know what’s wrong.”

“Micah?” Dev and I say at the same time. “Micah, the American?”

Bunce nods.

“I thought you wanted to leave Micah out of this stuff?” Snow asks, his face scrunched up. Bunce makes an exasperated huffing noise.

“I did, when we were doing missions for the Mage! But this is more serious, Niall might be possessed, and his dad is an expert in this stuff.”

“You think Niall is _possessed_?” Dev crows. “Crowley, you’ve gone round the bend. This isn’t some horror movie, this is our friend—”

“I think she’s onto something,” I say, cutting him off. I turn back to Bunce. “Go get the American.”

Bunce nods and slips out of the room, leaving us with Wellbelove and Snow. The latter is kicking at the floor with the toe of his trainer, and I can tell he’s anxious because every so often I get hit by a wave of his magic. I can’t blame him; I’m anxious too. I want to be doing something. Anything.

“Snow,” I snap, getting his attention. “Grab his legs, help me put him on the bed.”

Niall has been sitting, staring into space since I got here. According to Dev, he’s been like this since they got back from practice. Nothing has been able to snap him out of it — not calling his name, or snapping our fingers in front of him. I even slapped him and it did nothing. Dev threw a glass of water on him, but nothing.

Snow jumps at the task, bending over to pick him up, and Niall practically shoots up into the air when we lift him. Crowley, he’s so light. Has he always been this light? Has he been eating less? I didn’t even notice. I haven’t been paying attention.

We put him on the bed and back up to opposite corners of the room. Wellbelove moves over and brushes a lock of hair out of his face, and positions a pillow beneath his head, but his eyes still don’t blink. Nothing changes.

Bunce returns centuries later, the transfer student trailing behind her. The boy is as tiny as he was the first day of term; all skinny angles, with thick dark brows and huge black glasses taking up his entire face. He looks like a hispanic Buddy Holly, and I’m not filled with confidence.

“Baz, Dev, this is Micah Hernandez,” Bunce says. Micah waves. “His dad is a possession expert. Micah helps out sometimes. Micah, that’s Niall on the bed.”

Micah crosses the room with hesitant steps and peers down to look at Niall. He pulls back his eyelids and squints at him, then, to my immense horror, opens his mouth and pulls up his lips to look at Niall’s gums.

“How long has he been like this?” Micah asks. He has a quiet, calm kind of voice, which surprises me. I expected it to be squeaky, for some reason.

“An hour,” Dev says.

“But he’s been having these fugue states since early December,” I add. “I’ve see the black eyes once before, after we spent a night at the beach. I think that’s when this started.”

Micah nods slowly and blinks at me from behind his huge glasses. He has the infuriatingly calm demeanour of a doctor. I hate doctors.

“Yeah, something’s up,” he says. “There’s something inside him. Definitely some kind of demon. Has he seemed tired lately? Has he stopped eating?”

I look at Dev. I’ve no idea, but Dev is nodding.

“He sleeps all the time, yeah. And he is eating less, I think. We just thought…” Dev looks at me helplessly.

“We thought he was depressed,” I finish. “His gran died, the day before we went to the beach.”

“Oh, yeah, that would explain it. I think whatever is in him is some kind of parasite. They tend to latch onto people who are emotionally vulnerable.” Micah pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stares at us.

That explains it then. Why it went after Niall and not Dev and I. I don’t think Dev has any complex emotions, and I’ve long-since perfected the art of locking all my feelings into a steel box.

“And?” I snap, gesturing for him to go on. “Can we get it out?”

“Oh,” Micah says, sounding surprised. He nods. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Dev and I look at each other, then back to Micah.

“What do we do?”

There’s not much preparation to be done, admittedly. Dev’s football duffle gets emptied out to be a container for the demon, and I give Wellbelove my key to the kitchens so she can run and steal salt. Bunce goes and scrounges up candles, and Snow offers up his sword when Micah asks for a knife. The boy blinks as Snow pulls it out of thin air. “It’s fine,” Snow says, “it’ll let you hold it if you’re in the pursuit of justice and good will.”

Micah just nods.

“Right,” he says. If I weren’t on the verge of panic, I’d appreciate that the American also finds Snow to be excessively extra.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess that will work,” he says, taking the sword of Mages awkwardly.

Micah told us we all didn’t have to stay, but Dev and I refused to leave. Snow and Bunce did as well, but Snow tried to convince Wellbelove to leave.

“Niall helped me last year when you and Penny were gone,” she said, her voice like steel. “I’m staying.”

Snow and I pull Niall’s bed into the centre of the room and Micah pours a circle of salt around it, then stands up, shaking his curly hair out of his eyes.

“Anyone have music?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. Everyone in the room turns to me.

“Is that needed for an exorcism?” I ask, reaching for my mobile. Micah shakes his head.

“Nah, it just might make this less stressful,” he smiles shyly. “I’ve never done this on my own before. Something chill?”

I put on Radiohead and set my mobile on the windowsill. _Weird Fishes/_ _Arpeggi_ seems like a good soundtrack for an exorcism. Micah nods.

“Oh, good choice. Okay, so, uh, I need everyone outside the circle, and then I guess we can start.”

We all dutifully step out and each take a place next to one of the candles that Bunce placed around the salt circle. To my immense relief, we don’t have to hold hands. We just have to make sure the candles stay lit. I call up four flames and pass them around to the others, but Snow drops his in surprise (“I thought it was going to burn me!”), so I have to hand him another.

There’s no fanfare or build up. Micah just rubs his hands together and starts muttering over Niall in a language that isn’t English. Spanish, I think, maybe? With Latin peppered in. Definitely some Latin. He’s switching between languages faster than I can keep up, mumbling his words. He’s bent over, with each hand on either side of Niall’s head, murmuring over and over.

The candles start to flicker.

Micah picks up the Sword of Mages, and, making a squeamish face, makes a shallow cut on each of Niall’s palms. Blood starts to flow out of them, much faster than should naturally happen, and it pools on the floor.

“What—” Dev starts, but Bunce shushes him, just as Snow’s candle goes out. He scrambles to relight it, and I look up to see the blood on the floor pooling together, moving of its own accord slinking toward Micah—

“Crap, nope, don’t do that,” he says, shaking his foot at the pool of blood, and it retreats.

Who the fuck is this kid? He's vaguely terrifying. 

It's probably inappropriate timing, in the middle of an exorcism, but David Bowie flashes through my head. Is this why he wrote  _I'm Afraid of Americans_?

He leans further over Niall, and I see a cross fall out of the collar of his shirt. The pool of blood recoils further, and Micah keeps chanting.

Niall starts to convulse.

“Oh, uh, okay, can someone come hold him?” Micah shouts, straightening his glasses with his shoulder. I go to start forward, but Dev throws his arm out in front of me.

“I’ll go,” he says, stepping over the salt boundary and rushing to Niall’s side. He stands on the far side of the bed and leans over him, holding his arms gently against the bed to keep him from thrashing too much.

My candle goes out and I throw a flame at it quickly. There’s a wind in the room that seems to be coming from Niall’s bed, and it’s playing with the ring of salt. Everytime a candle goes out the wind gets stronger, as if it’s trying to blow the salt away. I tear my eyes away from Niall and start focusing on the candles, throwing out flames every time one flickers. From the bed I hear a gurgling noise, and I look up in time to see black liquid oozing out of Niall’s mouth, dripping down his chin and off the bed, mixing in with the stream of black tears running down his face as they drop to the floor and join the pool of blood.

A whispering goes around the room, and I’m freezing. It’s so cold, a wind biting at my face, and something is speaking in my ear, snatches, phrases. I’m shaking, suddenly, my fangs on the verge of popping. Across from me I can hear Wellbelove sniffling and shaking her head. Beside me, Snow’s face is pulled into a pinched expression, and inside the circle, Dev is shaking as well, his face gone completely white.

Something is fucking with us.

Micah pulls his hands away and reaches for the duffel bag and opens it, then puts it on its side.

“Come on, in you go,” he says, circling around to herd the pool of black matter into the duffel. “Crap, come on, don’t—”

The pool seems to be _hissing_ at him, breaking off in all directions to try to get away, circling Micah. I pull myself out of my freezing stupor call up a flame in my hand and throw it toward the left side of the pool, and it recoils and retreats. Micah jumps back as I send another flame, trying to ring the demon so that it has nowhere to go but the duffle bag. It retreats further and further until it’s finally inside, and Micah leans over — faster than I’ve seen him move yet — and zips it up.

Snow and I crash through the circle of salt immediately. Niall’s eyes are closed now, his breathing even, the cuts on his hands already clotting. Dev is fluttering over him, his hand gripping Niall’s arm so tightly his knuckles are white.

“Is it gone?” Dev whispers. Micah nods and picks up the duffle and shakes it a few times.

“Yeah, he should be good,” he answers. “He’ll probably sleep for a bit, I’d guess.” He looks at Bunce and holds up the duffel. “So, uh. What should we do with this?"

Radiohead is still playing. 

 

***

Niall woke up three days later with no memory of the exorcism.

Word spread quickly about what happened, and overnight he became a campus celebrity. When he was up to going into the dining hall, scores of students streamed over to clap him on the back and ask him how he was doing. He would have loved it, if it weren’t for the fact that Snow was getting a similar level of attention. Despite the fact that the American did literally everything, somehow the Mage twisted the story to make Snow out to be the hero. By the time Niall woke up, the story had twisted into some great lark about Snow banishing demons and the Mage overseeing the whole process.

I’ve been made out to be the villain of this little tale, for tricking Niall down to the beach against the rules.

To his credit, Snow seems uncomfortable whenever people bring it up, but it doesn’t make it any less shitty.

The Coven was called together to go out and sew the entrance to the beach back up. Half the staff went with them, even the goatherd. Fiona says it should have been done at the start of term, but the Mage was putting it off. She didn’t know why, though. But I did.

Bunce told me.

Two days before the end of term I stop her and the American on their way to dinner. No one had properly thanked Micah for what he did, and even if the Old Families are a group of stuck up pricks, they still teach manners. He did us a huge favour. It shouldn’t go unnoticed.

Micah waved off my thank you awkwardly, but Bunce didn’t.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she says, her voice gentle and sincere. “The beach should have been safe, but we were agitating things all term.”

“Agitating?” I ask. She nods, then looks over my shoulder.

“The Mage wanted Simon to retrieve a book that was buried on the island just off the coast. He told us not to go in the water, because we might wake things up.” She bites her lip. “Well. I think we woke some things.” There's a long pause, and she sighs. "He should have blocked off the beach immediately. I thought, so, at least. My mum was pushing hard for it, but he said there was something more important at stake, so I guess... that was the book." Bunce huffs, like the very thought of this annoys her. "We thought the selkies were guarding the book, but ... I think maybe they weren't necessarily trying to keep something out instead of keep something in. Anyway. I hope Niall will be alright."

“What book?”

Bunce shrugs.

“I don’t know. I think it had something to do with prophecies,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring past me.

I clench my jaw and follow her gaze to where Snow and Wellbelove are sitting under a tree, studying. Snow is laughing, his bronze hair catching the sun, his mouth split open in a smile, and something twists in my stomach.

“We knew it was a risk going there, and we did it anyway,” I say, turning back to Bunce. I don’t know what moved me to try to reassure her, but I’m glad I did. Her face breaks out in a relieved expression, and she smiles as she reaches forward to put a hand on my arm.

“Have a good summer, Basilton,” she says, squeezing me before letting go. I look at her, surprised. No one touches me casually like that, aside from Fiona.

“You too, Bunce. And you, Hernandez,” I say, nodding at the silent boy next to her before shouldering past them to go back to Mummers.

It’s just about what I figured. The Mage wanted something. He might claim it was a test or a trial or whatever fucked up terminology he uses, but it’s more than that. He used Snow to get it. It was too dangerous, so he sent Snow. And in the course of it, he got Niall hurt.

When is the Mage going to stop hurting the people I care about?

I should be packing, but I’m too worked up to do it, so instead I go through my mother’s records and pull out my favourite. Nick Drake, _Pink Moon_. It’s sadder than all my mother’s other records. All her other albums have a calm tranquility to them, or are upbeat and happy. Not this one. Maybe that’s why I love it so much. There’s something sharp underneath.

The music fills the room and I sit down on my bed and listen to it, letting it wash over me. There's one song, _Know_ , which I love. It helps me think. I close my eyes and lay back on my bed, and try to steady my breathing.

I know, logically, that the Mage didn’t kill my mother. The Humdrum did. Vampires did. But he’s done everything he can to kill her memory and her work. Dismantling her policies, opening up the school; campaigning on an idea of reform that’s entirely contingent on the notion of my mother as a racist, elitist, totalitarian aristocrat. Some of it might be true; I didn’t know her well. But she was also brilliant and brave and level-headed. And my mother.

He’s done everything he can to destroy her and her legacy, to use her to his own ends. He uses her name, just like he uses everyone else; the Coven, Watford, Snow.

I sit up from the bed, resolute, and head out the door and down the stairs of Mummers before I can change my mind. I’ve deliberately avoided doing this because it felt melancholy and self-indulgent, but all I want right now, what I want more than _anything_ , is my mother.

It’s easy to slip into the White Chapel, and it’s predictably empty, so no one stops me as I head to the poet’s corner, open the door, and begin the descent into the catacombs. Unlike the last time I was here, I do light the torches on the wall, throwing out flames as I go, rubbing the fire between my palms. They’re getting coarser, turning into fireworker’s hands. Just like my mother’s. They’re one of the only things I remember about her.

I don’t know where _Le Tombeau des Enfants_ is, but it’s not hard to track it down. I remember walking for years when I was a child, but I find it faster than I expect. I recognise the smooth stone walls. The stack of skulls in the corner. Plague victims, apparently. My mother’s tomb is newer, in better condition, but still as forgotten.

“ ** _A rose is a rose is a rose_** ,” I say, and a bouquet of three roses appears in my hands. I close my eyes and take a breath; conjuring flowers from thin air takes a lot out of a Mage. It’s stupid magic. Useless magic. But I don’t want to come empty handed.

I put the flowers in front of the tomb, then pull up my trouser legs slightly and sit down, my elbows propped on my knees as I study my mother’s final resting place.

I want to talk to her. I want to tell her how I am. How Fiona is. What I’ve been doing all these years. I want her to know that I found her albums and that I think she has atrocious taste. I want to tell her that I’ve been trying some of the spells she created, the ones she scribbled in margins of her old school books. I want to tell her that I’m a vampire and that I’m gay and that both of these things terrify me, but that I think I might be alright. I want to tell her that I’m alright. And that I love her.

But that’s not why I’m here. Those sentiments can come another time. I’m here because I need to make her a promise. I need to promise that she won’t be forgotten. That her legacy won’t die out with me. That her killer will be destroyed one day, if I have anything to say about it, but more importantly, that her life will not have been for nothing. That the Mage won’t use her as some villain in his reforms.

“I won’t let him use you,” I say, my voice cracking. I feel like there should have been some kind of prelude, but I think she’d understand. “I won’t let him use anyone.” I swallow. Breathe. Repeat.

“I miss you,” I breathe. “I barely know you, but I miss you. I think… I think we’re a lot alike. I know you were a fighter. You fought till the end. And I will too. Not for some stupid idea of tradition or glory or keeping up appearances. But… for you.”

I breathe.

“I’m going to fight him, for you. I promise. One day, I promise, he won’t hurt people anymore.”

There’s no answer in the empty tomb, but I don’t expect one. There’s nothing here but skulls. My mother’s body isn’t even here. Just a name plate. She might not even hear me.

I stand up and brush the dirt from my trousers.

“I’m going home for the summer, with Fiona. We’ve a place in London, but we’re going to visit father for a few weeks. He’s… he has a new family. But he’s happy. He misses you, but he’s happy, I think. As happy as he can be.”

A rat skitters by and I shudder.

“I’ll come visit again next year,” I say. “When I get back. I have things to tell you.”

The empty tomb echoes my words back at me.

“I love you, mother. And I meant my promise.” I turn my back to the tomb. “I’m going to fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS IN THIS FIC:**
> 
> _[Burning Down The House](https://open.spotify.com/track/2VNfJpwdEQBLyXajaa6LWT?si=hEX9NqjJS0OabGKVZuCEDQ) _ \- Talking Heads
> 
> [ _One Way Or Another_](https://open.spotify.com/track/59CLe8stbcx4XYBWdsfbwK?si=iNLxbimGRpuVVelQwf-scw) \- Blondie
> 
> [ _Weird Fishes/_](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Iyo50UoYhuuYORMLrGDci?si=7LUv5GddT8qdQ0O2KfRWzg) _[Arpeggi](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Iyo50UoYhuuYORMLrGDci?si=7LUv5GddT8qdQ0O2KfRWzg) - _ Radiohead
> 
> [ _I'm Afraid Of Americans_](https://open.spotify.com/track/6ZUwzAFkFYHbe8dqqe2pB5?si=3Bp5nU2OTFqgd2CWLM3dng) \- David Bowie
> 
> [ _Know_](https://open.spotify.com/track/16QcqyiNj7m5jbFGBVo4df?si=NIn9EsG-TCmGSFNpg5jrEQ) \- Nick Drake


	7. Here Comes Your Man | Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR FIVE, PART 1: DIY jackets, standing stone munchies, inappropriate boners, anarchist school papers and sleepy punks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Mordelia's **_[Tired Punks and Little Puffs](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/6fsCcfJXqtT02LrngCHvS1?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q)_  **playlist and Baz's [_**Rebel Rebel**_](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=HBMHv1B5RzaMa-nznCaYWg) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**  [Here Comes Your Man](https://open.spotify.com/track/0cs671lxX2eoDzr2KMuo3N?si=mbeuZxXQRNGXY-3iCJguiQ) \-- The Pixies
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello folks! This chapter begins the start of a big deviation from canon, so hold on to your butts. Thanks for reading along and sticking with me so far. You all are shining punks. I cannot begin to express how much I love your comments, and how much they keep me going and motivated. Thank you for all the love! - B

“Don’t want it.”

“Them,” I correct, handing Mordelia a black crayon. “You don’t want them. You have two new sisters, not one.”

Mordelia scrunches up her face and attacks the paper with the crayon.

“Why do we have to have them?” She blows a strand of her dark brown hair out of her face in annoyance, and I have to suppress a sigh as I pull the hair band off my wrist and gather her hair up into a ponytail. It’ll be loose within the half hour.

“That is an excellent question,” I tell her. “And I don’t have an answer. I thought Father already hit perfection with us as children, but apparently he decided he needs two more.”

“Babies are dumb,” my sister grouses, and I’m inclined to agree. I like Mordelia. No, I love Mordelia. But as far as I’m concerned, that was a fluke. I probably won’t care about Acantha and Ophelia. Besides the fact that their names are dreadful, the odds of Daphne producing three excellent children seems slim. At least one of them is going to be a dud.

“There you are,” comes a voice from the top of the garden, and Mordelia and I look up to see Malcolm striding toward us. The soft yellow glow of the after-dinner light seems to part as he comes down the hill toward the little table we’re sat at. He looks happy, if a bit rumpled from being at the hospital for so long. Fiona keeps telling him that Daphne is fine; she’s done this before, the babies are fine, and that just because they have to stay a bit doesn’t mean he has to live there. But he hasn’t listened to her. He’s outrageously protective of Daphne.

I guess, given his history, I can understand why.

“Basil, why is your sister dressed like that?”

I glance at Mordelia, who is currently wearing my old Wayfarers and a David Bowie t-shirt that I bought for her in London.

“Mordelia, what do we say to Father?” I prompt her. She looks up at Malcolm and smiles the big, toothy grin of a child who is almost three and has no idea they’re being used as a pawn by their older brother.

“Anarchy!” she chirps, then returns to drawing.

Malcolm sighs heavily and sits down in the wrought iron chair across from us.

“You really can’t teach her these things,” he says, his tone only slightly disapproving. “On the Queen’s birthday, Daphne asked her if she knew the words to _God Save The Queen_. Do you know what she sang?”

“I expect she sang the song,” I reply glibly.

“The wrong song,” Malcolm says, his tone dark.

“There’s more than one version?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “Who knew?”

Mordelia interrupts our conversation with an outrageous and loud yawn. It’s extremely undignified. Daphne would be horrified if she were to see it.

“Bed for the little one, I think,” Malcolm says, his tone suddenly soft as he reaches over to muss at Mordelia’s hair. She wrinkles her face and strikes at the page with her crayon again.

“Don’t wanna,” she says, then yawns again. I stand up from the table and lean over her, snatching her up from her chair and throwing her over my shoulder.

“It’s bedtime for sleepy punks and little puffs,” I say, biting back a grin as she screams and thrashes against me. Her wailing gets louder.

“I don’t _want to_ ,” she exclaims, sounding like she may be on the verge of a full meltdown. I put her down on the patio just before the large french doors leading into the dining room and stare her down. This is a tactic I’ve started using this summer. When Mordelia starts to act an ass, I just stare at her until she stops. It’s been startlingly effective, but Daphne and Malcolm can’t get it to work for them. Fiona can, though.

When she finally quiets, her hiccups fading away, I nod.

“That’s better. If you’d kept that up, I wasn’t going to put on your music for you.”

Mordelia’s lower lip wobbles, but she looks murderous. Even I haven’t found the strength to keep her music from her. She screams like a banshee if the CD is taken away or missing. She carries it with her almost everywhere, pre-loaded in her pink Disney CD player. In the car, at the playground, and especially before bedtime. Daphne says she won’t go to bed without it.

I kind of regret making the mix for her. I didn’t realise I was going to create a monster.

It takes far longer than it should to get her ready for bed and tucked in, with a promise that I’ll send Malcolm up as soon as I leave.

“Music!” she shrieks when I try to leave the room without turning it on. I sigh. One time. One time, maybe, I’ll get away with it. She’s starting to make me hate the songs I put on that damned mix anyway.

I go over and press play on the pink player, and the first track of Mordelia’s Lullaby Mix floods the room. _Sunny Afternoon_ , The Kinks. Mordelia lets out a happy sigh, snuggles back into her bed, and closes her eyes. I watch her for a moment. I’m envious, sometimes, of how easy things are for her. But I don’t want them to be hard.

And besides, Mordelia is the only one who seems to _get_ it. Music seems to fix everything for her, and I love her for it. Music can fix most things for me as well.

“Sing me to sleep,” she mumbles, and I pause. Is this a request? If so, it’s one I’ll be refusing, banshee screams be damned.

“What?” I whisper through the room.

“Sing me to sleep song,” Mordelia repeats in a combination of a stage whisper and a yawn. “Will you put it on? Please, Basil? And stay?”

Oh. She’s asking for The Smiths. _Asleep_. The most depressing fucking song in the world, and also one of my favourites.

I go back across the room and skip through the songs until the familiar chords begin, and then I sit down on the edge of her bed.

_Sing me to sleep_

_I'm tired and I_

_I want to go to bed_

I feel very out of place on her pink sheets, but I suppose that’s a good thing. Her room looks like a child actually lives here, and she has a bed that’s of a reasonable height for a three year-old to get into. Back before I lived with Fiona, I used to sleep in a great, Gothic monstrosity that required a stepstool to get into it.

I can’t imagine that Daphne would have stood for that.

_Sing to me_

_I don't want to wake up_

_On my own anymore_

I make a face. I really shouldn’t have put this on Mordelia’s mix. It’s far too maudlin for a child, but I was feeling out of sorts at the beginning of the summer when I made this CD. I had meant for some fun, slow songs to help her sleep, because Daphne had told me she had bad dreams a lot. (I’m of the opinion that this is probably due to the creepy fucking wraiths all over this house, but I didn’t voice that.)

But I was still coming off of my anger toward the Mage, and my upset over Niall, and so some of the songs turned… a bit dark. I’d feel bad if she didn’t love it so bloody much.

_There is another world_

_There is a better world_

_Well, there must be_

“Love you, Basil,” Mordelia yawns before turning over to nestle into her pillow. I reach over carefully and tuck her hair back and allow myself a self-indulgent smile. I suppose that this strange family set up we have — wherein I spend a month of the hols and part of Christmas with Malcolm — makes it easier for me to come and go and appreciate Mordelia the more for it. I get to be less of a begrudged big brother and more of a fun uncle, I suppose.

I kind of like the idea of getting to be her Fiona, someday.

I hope it stays that way. Sometimes everything feels harder than it should be. Darker than it should be. Some days I wake up and feel like I’m back to third year, where I’m panicking and barely treading water and everything — the Mage, the Old Families, my Bela Lugosi problem — it’s all too much.

I keep thinking about Niall and Simon Snow of all people. Is this how Niall felt all last year while he was possessed? Like he was lost? And is this how Snow feels all the time? Like he might burst from the pressure?

Things don’t have to be all bad, I suppose. I just have to keep going. I made a promise to my Mother that I’d keep going and I’d keep fighting. And to Niall, to get revenge for all the time he’s been hurt. And even Snow, for all the times he’s been used. Sometimes I feel like I’m promising something to Mordelia, something I can’t quite put a finger on, some vague, undefined promise that she won’t have to deal with the things I’ve had to deal with.

I can hear her puffing little breaths signalling that she’s asleep, and I stand up slowly.

“Goodnight little punk,” I say, patting her tiny foot through the blankets, and creep from the room.

 

***

 

“Agatha Wellbelove,” I shout. “What the hell did you do to my jacket?”

Across the Lawn, Bunce and Wellbelove startle at the sound of my voice, and Wellbelove turns slowly, a large smile on her face.

She’s wearing the denim jacket I gave her, but she’s completely redone it. Gone are the patches and the large image of David Bowie on the back. She’s scrubbed the blood off the cuff and replaced the back panel with a large, pastel beach scene — a pink sunset, a green palm tree, a blue ocean.

“Hello Baz,” she says sweetly, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing those ridiculous coke bottle John Lennon glasses and has purple varnish on her nails. “Do you like it? My friend Minty did it.”

I come even with her and Bunce, my hands in my pocket, one headphone (which I’ve spelled invisible) in my ear. I don’t know why I didn’t think of using **_nothing to see here_ ** on my headphones before. I could have kept them in during class so much easier.

“You painted a beach scene on my jacket,” I say, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t back down, just keeps smiling.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t,” I say. “It’s properly punk. Well done, Wellbelove.”

Bunce, who has been watching this exchange with a look of amusement, snorts.

“Did you have a nice summer, Basil?” she asks. Her hair is green this year. I nod.

“Quite nice. My stepmother had twins. And you?”

“Terrible. My brother Pacey became an atheist.” I raise an eyebrow.

“You have another brother?” I ask, because truly, I thought Premal was it. Bunce sighs in annoyance.

“Yes, Basil. I have four siblings. Keep up.”

I open my mouth to retort, but Bunce is already looking behind me at someone coming down the hill, and so is Wellbelove. I know who it is before I even turn around, and yet I’m still surprised when I see Simon Snow strolling toward us.

Because Simon Snow got fit.

Simon Snow got so outrageously fit.

There have been times when I wonder if someone once cast **_isn’t it ironic?_** on me and never bothered to take it off, because at this moment the illegal mobile hidden in my pocket (I don’t care what the Mage says, I’m not leaving my music behind) switches songs, and the Pixies comes on, the bass thrumming out the opening chords to _Here Comes Your Man_.

I’m staring at him, I know, but I can’t help it. He shot up like a weed this summer and his shoulders filled out. I grew too, but now I’m just long and lanky, but not Snow. He’s all thick lines. The sun is behind him, lighting up bronze hair that’s almost the same colour of his tanned skin, and his eyes and nose are scrunched up in a picture of sheer delight at the sight of his friends.

A picture of delight that drops the moment he sees me.

“Oh, come on!” he growls, glaring at me. I raise one eyebrow and he huffs. “You grew! You got even fucking taller, how is that possible?” he mutters, his eyes raking over my body. I feel a flush run to my face, and I’m so, so glad that I still have my Wayfarers on, so he can’t see the fact that I’m having a minor panic attack.

“Hello to you too, Snow,” I say. This is fine. This is fine. I’ve encountered attractive men before.

He huffs.

“I finally fucking grow, and look at you!” he shouts. In another world I’d be delighted that my tall stature has sent Snow into a meltdown, but I’m too busy with one of my own. So busy that I don’t hear the football coming toward me until it connects with my head.

“Heads up!” comes Dev’s delayed shout, and I turn to glower at my cousin. I look like an absolute fucking idiot. Trying to control my homicidal rage, I kick the ball up onto the toe of my shoes, balance it a moment, then flip it up in the air and kick it back. It sucker punches him in the gut, and Niall lets out a weak laugh.

He looks a bit better than he did when I saw him at the start of the summer. Puberty hit him hard — or maybe it was the demonic possession, who’s to say — but he shot up as well, and his red hair darkened, and he’s entered an unfortunate awkward stage. Dev is as short and compact as ever, and the two of them look wildly mismatched next to each other, but both have the same dark tan.

Dev and I have agreed to a joint custody situation with Niall, wherein he takes him for the summer hols and I take him for Christmas, so that he has to spend as little time as possible with his awkward relations. I’ll get Niall next summer, but the extended Grimms were going to Majorca, and somehow that sounded more interesting to him than faffing about London and hanging with a three year-old..

“Has he got to you as well, then?” Niall says to Wellbelove when they get close enough, taking in her outfit. “Another one corrupted by Baz’s bad influence?”

Wellbelove blushes in an obnoxiously cute way, and Snow huffs at my side.

“Right, yeah, I need your help,” Snow says, cutting across Wellbelove’s response and grabbing at Bunce. “I need to show you something.”

I wonder if he actually has something to show them, or if he’s just trying to get them away from us. Or rather, get Wellbelove away.

“I thought we were going to catch up, Snow,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Swap stories about our summers, give each other all the dish. I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, right, fuck off,” he says, turning his eyes back on Wellbelove. He looks like a fucking puppy when he stares at her. Disgusting. “You coming, Aggie?”

Wellbelove looks between the two of us and smiles at me.

“I’ll see you around, Baz,” she says, then lets Snow drag her away. I watch him go, hands in my pockets, trying not to stare at the fact that he’s really managed to fill out his school jumper this year. He turns around once, to stare at me over his shoulder, before hurrying Wellbelove away from my corrupting influence.

Well, fuck. This is an unexpected and extremely unwelcome development.

 

***

 

“Do you think you could breathe quieter?” I snap, looking up from my work. Snow has been huffing and puffing at the desk across from me for the better part of an hour, and it’s making it impossible to focus on my work. Not that I want to. Every time I look at the essay prompt, I’m flooded with a new combination of rage and horror.

_Describe the events and factors leading up to the election of the current Mage. Cite historical record._

I hardly think I should have to write this essay. I should just turn myself in and roll down my collar and show them the bite mark on my shoulder. That should be enough, I would think.

“Sorry,” Snow mumbles, then wiggles his Biro. He sticks it in his mouth and sucks on it in a way that’s vaguely pornographic. He taps it against his teeth several times, then taps it on the desk.

I might fucking explode.

“I’m going to the library,” I say, slamming my books closed and standing up. Snow stares up at me.

“Why? It’s pouring outside.”

“I’d rather get drenched than listen to you tap out a symphony with your teeth,” I snap, looking around for my rain jacket. I feel anxious and jittery and I’m horrified at the thoughts that just flooded my mind while watching Snow suck on a fucking pen. Where the fuck did those come from?

There’s also another problem, a humiliating awful problem, but now I can’t turn around. I have to stand, facing away from Snow or at least sitting down at my desk until this absurd, obscene problem...goes away. I sit down and scoot in to my desk.

Fuck a nine toed troll this is fucking awful. This has never happened to me before.

Snow just lets out another huff.

“Sorry. It’s just, it’s weird, isn’t it?”

I raise an eyebrow. Oh Crowley. Can he tell? There’s no way he can tell. He’s a wunderkind but there’s no way he can tell what I’m thinking. I glance at my lap. It’s not that obvious. He definitely can’t tell.

“Being in the room and stuff with no music? I guess I’m just used to studying with something in the background, but since technology was banned the room is just so _quiet_ all the time and it’s weird.”

Snow flushes lightly, like he’s just said something embarrassing, and a warm feeling pools within me. I’ve always assumed he hated my music. But apparently I’ve trained him to be dependent on it.

Whatever this weird warm feeling that I’m experiencing is, at least my...other problem has abated. Thank Crowley. I’m never, ever feeding in the morning again. Ever.

I survey him for a long, long moment, then pull out my wand, point it at our door, and cast **“** ** _cone of silence!_** ”

“Wha—” he starts, but I cut him off by going to my wardrobe, opening the door, and pulling out a large cardboard box and setting it on the floor in front of him. Inside are all my records, my record player, my old iPod, several pairs of headphones, and a portable bluetooth speaker that Daphne received as a free perk for creating a bank account for Mordelia at Barclay’s.

“You’re aware that I could have reported the many, many times you’ve had Bunce and Wellbelove in this room,” I say coldly, taking in his awe struck gaze. I hate that I adore the way it feels to have him impressed by me. “I show you this under that understanding. If anyone finds out about it, this never happened. You’ll never find the evidence.”

Snow furrows his brows and glares up at me.

“I’m not a snitch,” he says, even though he absolutely, 100 per cent is. At least when it comes to me. “I never told about the Premal thing.”

I stare at him impassively.

“Considering that you have absolutely no idea what the Premal thing is, that’s an empty gesture.” It’s a hazard, but I seriously doubt Bunce would tell the golden boy that her brother is a drug dealer. Snow may overlook an illegal iPod, but not drugs. He’d rat him out in a heartbeat. By the pinched expression on my roommate’s face, I’ve got it right. He has no idea what the Premal thing is.

“Just don’t tell the Mage,” I say. Snow tenses, and he looks like he’s backed into a corner.

He always gets this look on his face when the Mage comes up, like he’s expecting a scolding. I don’t think he’s scared of the Mage physically — nothing like that. But I think he’s terrified of letting him down. Harbouring illegal contraband for your evil roommate would definitely qualify as letting the Mage down.

What makes me curious is why Snow is terrified of his reactions. I had assumed they had some kind of father-son relationship for awhile, but Snow corrected me on that years ago. If Snow fucked up — if he properly fucked up, and was no longer useful for the Mage — would the Mage still call him his heir and give him his sword?

I think Snow and I both know the answer, even if one of us doesn’t want to admit it.

“Fine,” he says finally. “I won’t tell. Unless you’re a dick.”

“Vague,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m always a dick, Snow. Now, shall I put on some music, or are we going to squabble about terms and agreements?”

Snow huffs and turns back to his work.

“Alright then, yeah,” he says. “Turn it on.”

I pull out the small bluetooth speaker and set it on the ledge between our desks, then connect it to my mobile and turn on the playlist I made for Mordelia. I was ready to break her CD player by the end of the summer, but now, not hearing it every day, I’ve found I rather miss it.

Snow bobs his head as _Sunday Morning_ comes on and lets out a sigh that sounds so much like Mordelia that I almost do a second take, then settles in to do his homework. He stops tapping his pen.

The rain and the music mix together as I turn my attention back to my essay.

_Describe the events and factors leading up to the election of the current Mage. Cite historical record._

I vaguely consider writing a treatise on Hitler. Or maybe Lenin. I should just copy out _Crime and Punishment_ and put my name on it.

I sigh, pick up my own Biro (Snow’s keep migrating to my desk, for some reason) and put my pen to paper.

I did promise myself I was going to fight against the Mage. So I might as well start now.

 

***

 

“...during which Llewellyn cast off his birth name and, bucking tradition, styled himself as The Mage, thus elevating his stature to an elite and exclusive position and taking over the — previously unheard of — position of running Watford while also acting as the head of the Coven. No one person has held both positions since the Great Magical Schism of 1597, wherein Corinthe Abercathy took hostile control of the Watford grounds and established himself as the self-proclaimed leader of the Coven. Much like the Mage, Abercathy claimed to spark a revolution which was in reality a series of totalitarian power grabs wrapped up in the trappings of a Utopian Trojan horse.”

Bunce lowers the paper and stares at me over the rim of her ridiculous glasses. I don’t look up, and keep highlighting my textbook. She glances around at the mostly empty library before leaning across the table.

“Don’t tell me you turned this in,” she hisses.

“I’m rather fond of the section about taxation on the next page,” I answer. Across from me, Niall snorts, but continues to studiously work on his French homework and pretend like he’s not eavesdropping.

“Basil,” Bunce says, her voice heavy with frustration. “Please, please tell me you didn’t turn this in.”

“It’s a good paper, Bunce,” I say, flicking my eyes up to her in annoyance. “You’ll find my citations are perfectly formatted. And anyway, I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

“Basil—” she starts, then seems to switch tactics. “Is this how you really feel about the Mage?”

Now I look up.

“Are you going to tell me you disagree?”

There’s a long silence. Niall’s eyes are darting between us. He’s given up all pretense of not watching.

“Of course I disagree,” she says finally, but I know Bunce too well. She’s an awful liar. “Basil, you accuse him of dragging your mother’s name through the mud and using the Coven for personal gain while dismantling her legacy. You barely even talk about his actual reforms or all the good he’s done with the Humdrum—”

“I have two pages on the history of the blank spots, and the reason I don’t mention his efforts with the Humdrum is because he has none,” I snap, taking my paper back from her. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“He’s the one who reads this. You’re going to be in so much trouble,” she whispers. She looks like she’s actually concerned for me, and it pings at my chest a bit.

“Wouldn’t that be something? The Mage punishing someone for voicing an unpopular opinion. Funny how things come full circle, isn’t it?”

“Basil—”

“I’m not scared of getting in trouble, Bunce,” I say, gathering up my books. “And although he seems to have forgotten, the Mage isn’t a god. He’s just a man. And men don’t scare me.”

Bunce gives me a look that drips of sympathy, and I want to snarl and flash my fangs and wipe it off her face. I don’t want or need her sympathy. This isn’t some emotional, teenage rebellion. This is about right and wrong. This is about a man who uses people and hurts children. This is about a man whose out to ruin my family’s life.

This is about a man whose own heir is terrified of him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for practise,” I tell Niall, ignoring Bunce. He nods and gives me a lazy salute with one hand, and turns back to his homework.

I duck out of the library quickly and dart across the Lawn toward the White Chapel, slipping through the door in the back of the Poet’s Corner and taking the stairs down to the catacombs. It’s become a familiar path for me since getting back to school. I don’t love it down here — I don’t spend long down here, because of the dust and the vague feeling of claustrophobia — but I make an effort to come by regularly, even if it does make me sneeze.

Visiting her makes my chest feel tight and a bit like I can’t breathe sometimes, but in a cathartic way. It’s not like the sadness that sometimes creeps up on me a night. It’s a good sadness. A comforting sadness, one that I can carry around like a friend.

When I hit the room with the bones, I set down my books and settle myself on the ground in front of my mother’s tomb.

“Hello mother,” I say, clearing my throat. “I brought that essay I mentioned. I actually used several of your books to write it. Thanks for that, by the way. Those books have been brilliant. I’m starting to work through your notes about the Great Sixteenth Century Vowel Shift.”

I adjust my trousers slightly, then lean over to my bag and pull out the copy of my essay that Bunce stole off of me in the library. I light a flame in my hand, even though I have perfect night vision, and begin to read.

“I’ll just give you the highlights,” I tell her, and then launch into my paragraph on the Mage’s midnight coup.

I read until my voice grows hoarse, and then I pack up my things and prepare to go.

“I’ll come visit again this weekend and tell you how our match goes,” I say to the tomb, running my fingers along the marble, then sigh as my eyes fall on the pile of bones stacked behind her in the corner. If I had my way, she wouldn’t be down here. She’d be somewhere clean and orderly and outside, where people could easily come visit her. Not hidden away beneath the school like an afterthought. Like a secret.

It’s not yet dark when I emerge from the White Chapel, and I blink, confused for a moment. It’s always like this; I spend so much time down there in the dark that when I come out and it’s still daylight, I have to momentarily reset my internal clock. I always expect it to be nighttime.

I dust the cobwebs off my uniform and head back to the room. I should have time for a shower before Snow gets back from his latest adventure. Maybe I’ll put the silence spell on the bathroom and turn on my music. I hadn’t dared to do it before, but Snow has been strangely non-Snow-like about the whole thing lately, so—

I pause at the top of the stairs when I hear the soft pulsing beat coming from the other side of our door. Someone’s playing music.

I open the door slowly and am greeted with a soft wall of music. _Moonage Daydream_. For a moment I think I must have left my music on, but no, I’ve actually just stepped into a parallel universe, one where Snow is laying on his back on his bed, his arms tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Listening to David Bowie.

The door closes softly behind me and Snow looks up, tilting his chin and his head nearly falling off the side of the bed as he sees me. He smiles — a wide, slow smile — and his face crinkles.

“These lyrics are fucking weird,” he says, scrunching his face again, and then laughing. “David Bowie is so fucking weird.”

“What are you doing?” I ask him, not moving from the doorway. This can’t be Snow. This is some evil replacement that stole his body and moved into my room and is being fun.

“Listening to music. I don’t get it. Why do you love him?” I see my mobile sitting on the bed next to Snow and I narrow my eyes.

“You stole my mobile? I told you not to touch my shit.”

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. The song comes to an end and cycles over to _Oh! You Pretty Things_. I love this song. It’s got such a Beatles vibe to it. The Beatles would have been so much better if Bowie had been involved.

Snow bops his head in time to it.

“This isn’t bad, I suppose. Less….spacey. Why does he love space so much? It’s just like. Stars and shit.”

He shifts and I hear the crinkle of a bag. He’s laying on top of an empty crisp bag. He stole one of my fucking Walkers and ate it all.

“Are you _high?_ ” I bark out, realisation washing over me suddenly. Snow shakes his head.

“No!” he barks. “Just got a bit light headed. Got caught in this fog out near the standing stones — you know them? Big things. Look all… rock-like. Yeah, just felt a bit sick, yeah? Came back to sleep. Then I thought,” he blows air out of his cheeks, “too fucking quiet in here without your music, yeah? Gives me the creeps actually. And I was like, is this how David Bowie feels all the time? So spacy? So I was like, well, that’s a proper chance to listen to Bowie, innit?”

The laughter escapes me before I can keep it back. Simon Snow is high as a fucking kite.

“Budge over, Snow. This is not the proper music,” I say, stepping up on the bed and over him. He’s placed my bluetooth speaker on the shelf above his bed and I turn it up as I cast the silence spell at our door. I lean over him to pluck my mobile from his hands, and he snorts in laughter at something as I step off his bed and head back over to mine.

The shower can wait. This is a once in a lifetime experience.

I kick off my shoes and lay back on my bed, my head at the end, just like he’s laying, and hold my mobile out as I search through the songs.

“Alright, Snow,” I say, my hand hovering over my song selection. “Close your eyes.”

“Not a fat fucking chance,” Snow snorts. “You’ll probably try to possess me or some shit.”

“ _Possess you?_ What the fuck — just do it,” I snap, and Snow snorts again before complying. I press play on my phone, and the first notes of _Space Oddity_ float through.

“Ooh, this is on that nice playlist you have,” he says, and I shush him, even though my stomach is thrumming.

This entire situation is horrifyingly adorable and I hate it.

“Shut up and listen,” I say, closing my own eyes just as David Bowie begins to count. Snow, incredibly, falls silent.

The music swells around us and I can almost feel the familiar rhythm echoing through me. I love this song. Sometimes I think I’ll grow out of Bowie or that I’ve overplayed him or that, perhaps, he can’t live up to the pedestal my eleven-year old self put him on. But then sometimes there are just those _moments_ ; the ones where the right song hits you at the right time and all the feelings and thoughts you’ve ever had come crushing back and you just know that no other song will hit you like this. No other song will ever have a place in your heart like this.

I open my eyes and turn my head to the side to see if Snow is listening intently, and my chest squeezes tight. His eyes are closed, a small smile on his face, his neck elongated, gently bobbing with the beat. The last of the day’s sun is throwing dusky rays through our window and playing off his skin, lighting up his freckles and dancing across his hair. Dust moats swirl around his head, trapped in the rays, and a shadow from the window pane cuts across his jaw.

David Byrne once said that real beauty knocks you a bit off kilter. I never got that before. But I feel off kilter now. I feel unsteady, and completely, utterly knocked off beat. The music keeps vibrating through me and I feel like I’m the one whose high. Like I’m the one experiencing some odd, out of body sensation.

Crowley, how have I never noticed this before? He’s always been attractive, yes, especially in later years, but somehow I’ve never stopped to appreciate the fact that the Chosen One is actually, properly beautiful. Not just broad shouldered and fit.

He turns his head as if he can feel the weight of my gaze on him and opens his eyes — blue, completely washed out in the late evening sun — and smiles.

“Alright. This song is alright,” he says. I don’t answer.

I’m knocked a bit off kilter by it all.

 

***

 

“Snow, don’t tell me you forgot your key again,” I call through the door. “Just prick your thumb like the pagan you are, I’m not getting up.”

Snow has deliberately refused to address the night that I caught him high as hell, and he hasn’t repeated it, but I think he’s gotten trapped in the fog one or two more times, because his spatial awareness and memory seems to be completely fucked this term. This is at least the third time he’s gotten himself locked out of our room and ended up pounding on it to be heard through my silence spell.

The door opens slowly, and I look up from my perch on the bed where I’m studying. It’s not Simon in my doorway. It’s the Mage.

I have about two seconds to school my face into a blank mask, but there’s absolutely nothing to be done about the record player sitting on the desk right next to where the Mage is standing, happily cycling one of my mother’s records over and over, while the box with the rest of my contraband sits on the chair next to it.

My entire body goes stiff as the Mage and I both look at the record.

“Basilton,” he says, nodding curtly and stepping in. Crowley, I wish Snow were here. I’ve never been alone with the Mage before.

“You are aware that technological devices are strictly prohibited on campus, are you not?” the Mage asks, reaching over and pulling the needle off of the record. It makes a horrible scratching noise and my heart leaps. Merlin, please don’t let him have scratched it. I can’t replace that.

“It’s a record player, sir,” I say boldly. “It’s hardly advanced.”

The Mage looks into the box next to it, where my old iPod and bluetooth speaker sit. My mobile is currently hidden under my pillow, and if he tries to come over here to search me, I’ll bite him.

“Advanced or no,” he says, peering further into the box and reaching in to pick something up. “They are explicitly stated on the list of prohibited items.” He pulls out a book that was in the box — one of my mother’s books. I’ve been keeping them with her records, because they feel like a set. He turns it over in his hand and flips open the cover, squinting down at it, then snaps it shut.

It takes every ounce of self restraint I have to not launch myself across the bed and rip the book out of his hands.

“You also seem to have a rather large collection of Watford library books,” he says, shaking the book in question. “As you know, books cannot be checked out of the library.”

“It’s not a library book,” I snap. “It was my mother’s. It belongs to me.”

I realise my mistake the second the words leave my mouth. Of course the Mage already knew that. The inside of each of the books is stamped with a familiar letter plate. PROPERTY OF WATFORD SCHOOL OF MAGICKS.

They were stamped back when my mother was the headmistress.

“I’m disappointed in you, Basilton,” the Mage says, dropping his tone to one of concern. “You’ve never been an ideal student, but your behaviour this term is concerning me. First you fail your Politickal History essay, and now thieving and hiding contraband?”

I failed my essay? I didn’t even know. We haven’t gotten them back yet. Crowley, what a prick. He failed me on purpose. I’ve never failed a paper in my life. I’ve never failed anything.

“I’m afraid school policy states I’ll have to confiscate this.”

“Confiscate?” I ask, shooting up out of my seat. “I’ll send it home.”

The Mage stares me down, his eyes meeting mine. He doesn’t look vindictive or nasty or even evil. He looks… he looks like he’s sincere. Like he’s some kindly man, forced to impose punishment.

“I’m sorry Basilton, but rules are rules.”

“Those are my mother’s,” I repeat, my hands shaking. My face feels numb. This absolutely cannot be happening. “Those are my mother’s books and records, I brought them from home. You can’t take them.”

“The books are property of the school, and the records are prohibited,” the Mage says, pulling out his wand. I almost pull mine too, but he flicks it at the box and mumbles something, and it levitates off the chair. He scoops the record player up from its perch on the desk and nestles it on top of the records. I almost gasp. He barely even settled it. It’s going to snap the records. It’s going to bend the spines of the book.

“Really, I’m sorry to do it, but your mother would agree with me,” the Mage says. “She was a great believer in following rules and respecting authority.” He looks down his nose at me. “You could do well to be more like her.”

He floats the box out of the room in front of him, then closes the door, taking every last item I have of my mother’s with him.

I try to fix my breathing. I try to go slow, to control the rage that’s rolling through me. I’ve never felt more like a Dark Creature than I do in this moment. I could kill him. I could shred him with my bare hands. I could drain him and break his neck, and I really don’t think I’m being hyperbolic.

When the spots clear from my vision, I wrench the door open so hard it slams back into the wall, and I can hear Snow’s school books falling off his shelf and clattering to the floor. I pay no mind, not even bothering to shut the door as I go clambering down the stairs, my breath coming ragged, and burst into Dev and Niall’s room. They’re both on Dev’s bed, copying off each other’s homework, it seems, and they blink up at me.

“What’s wong?” Dev asks and Niall tilts his head. I steady my breathing as best I can.

“Lads,” I say, unclenching my fist. “We’re going to kill the Mage.”

 

***

 

“What is wrong with you?” Snow barks, staring me down. I glare at him.

“Get fucked,” I say, shouldering past him and going into the bathroom. He pulls back, staring at me incredulously, but doesn’t follow. Thank Merlin for small miracles. It seems like all Snow has done for the past two weeks is follow me around, asking what’s wrong, where I’m going, what happened, what’s my problem. The response is the same every time.

“You’re being even shiftier than usual, and a right prick!” Snow shouts through the bathroom door at me. “I don’t know what your fucking problem is. Is it because I touched your music without asking that one time? I thought you were over that.”

I rip the bathroom door open between us and stick my head out.

“I said fuck _off_ ,” I snap, slamming the door shut again and sending up the silencing spell so I don’t have to hear him.

I don’t know if he’s the one who sold me out to the Mage or not. I have no idea why the Mage came by that night — was he just looking for Simon, or did he know I had contraband in my room, and had come specifically to take it? He already failed me on my essay about his rise to power, which was the most he could realistically do to punish me for my critiques. But if he knew I had my music, he would have an easier route to make me miserable…

And getting my mother’s books and music must have made the whole thing even sweeter to him.

I don’t think Snow ratted me out. He liked the music, and he didn’t know about the books, and anyway, I don’t think he would have said anything unless he was directly asked. But if that were the case, he wouldn’t be badgering me day and night about what was up and why I’d stopped playing music in the room. He’d already know.

Knowing that it’s not his fault doesn’t make me any less pissed at him, though. Whether he snitched or not, it’s still his mentor — his foster father or whatever the fuck you want to call it — who did this to me. It’s still _him_. His _side_. The side of _rules_ and _right_.

Fuck them all.

I finish brushing my teeth and slam out of the bathroom, stopping to grab my footy duffel before I’m out the door. Snow is on my heels.

“What are you planning?” Snow asks, his tone heavy with accusation.

“I prefer you when you’re high,” I snap, storming down the stairs and out of Mummers. “You’re far more enjoyable.”

“I wasn’t _high_ ,” Snow retorts, but he doesn’t slow. Finally I do, stopping short just before the pitch and turning to face him.

“What are _you_ doing? Why are you coming to watch the game?”

“Students are encouraged to watch the football matches,” he says, and I narrow my eyes. Crowley, I wish I hadn’t noticed how fucking fit he is suddenly. Everytime we’re up close like this all I can do is just stare at his moles and his chin and his thick fucking eyebrows. It used to be that I wanted to punch him.

Now I have the horrifying urge to lick him, which has just got to fucking be a weird side effect of my gay Bela Lugosi problems.

“Fuck off back to your friends and leave me be,” I sneer, pushing all thoughts of licking Snow out of my mind. I’m too pissed anyway right now to properly focus on how good he looks. I stride onto the pitch, greeting Dev and Niall and going through our pre-game stretches. Niall pauses halfway through his and nods at the stands.

“Why is Snow here?” he asks, tilting his head. “Has he come to be our personal cheerleader?”

“He thinks I’m up to something,” I sneer, turning to flip the V at Snow. He glowers back at me.

“Crowley, he’s mental,” Dev mutters, and I nod, turning back to my friends and folding myself into a toe touch.

“Mad as a fucking fairy,” I agree, straightening up. “Now. Is the plan still on for tomorrow afternoon?”

 

***

 

It’s been far, far too long, and I think the Chimera might kill me.

I’ve been hiding at the edge of the valley we set it loose in, smack in the middle of the Wavering Wood, and Marcus was meant to go fetch the Mage over thirty minutes ago. The message was simple: there was a monster loose in the woods.

So what the fuck is taking the Mage so long?

I grip my wand tighter. It hasn’t seen me yet, luckily, but it can feel my wards. I had to put them up to keep it contained in this area, or else it would go thrashing through the forest and wander into the school and then we’d be in deep shit. That’s the entire reason we decided to summon it here, in the Wood, instead of in the Mage’s office like I’d initially wanted to.

It screams and an awful sound like two cars crashing together rips through the air, and the Chimera slashes at another tree with its front paw while the goat head on its back bleats. It’s a disgusting looking creature, nowhere near as elegant as the ancient pottery makes them look, and it’s also roughly the size of a house, which I did not expect.

“Where the fuck are you?” I mumble, scanning the trees for the Mage. As soon as he shows, I can let my spell go and get the fuck out of here and leave him to deal with this.

I don’t think it’ll kill him. Even if he’s an asshole, he’s supposed to be incredibly powerful. The head of The Coven should be capable of dispensing a mythical beast by himself, anyway.

Mostly, I’m hoping it’ll scare him a bit. Rattle him. And keep him distracted long enough that Dev can try to slip into his office and dismantle the wards that have been put up to keep us out.

I wish Dev and Niall were here. I told them not to stay, because it’s dangerous, and because if anything goes terribly wrong, I may have to use some of my vampire abilities to get out of here, and I don’t want them to see that. But waiting here, alone, is kind of awful.

There’s a crashing through the trees to my left, and I see movement through the branches. Fucking finally. I drop my spell and the Chimera screams again, the serpent’s head on its tail whipping around and snapping at the air, just as the brush gives way to reveal—

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I shout, bursting from behind the trees. The Chimera sees me at the same time Snow does, and it lobs a huge breath of fire at me. I dodge behind a rock and narrowly avoid being incinerated. Snow jumps too.

“I saw Marcus,” Snow pants. His sword is already in hand. “He said there was something out here.”

“He was meant to get the Mage!” I shout over the din of the Chimera’s screaming. Snow furrows his brow.

“I was with the Mage, and he told me to go,” he says, catching his breath. “Why are you out here?”

“I was holding it in place,” I snap. It’s not a lie. “Why did you agree to come here?”

I don’t need him to answer. I already know. He’s out here because I have once again underestimated the stubborn _goodness_ of Simon Snow.

“Marcus said you were hurt. You look fine to me,” he says suspiciously, eyeing me. Another round of flames hits our rock, and Snow squares his jaw.

“Right, stay here,” he orders, then jumps out from behind the rock and charges the Chimera, his sword held high.

“Snow, don’t!” I shout, but it’s too late. He’s already cutting his sword through the air, swinging down, connecting with the Chimera’s tail but—

The sword goes all the way through and nothing happens, because the Chimera isn’t corporeal. It’s just gossamer and mist.

“Fuck!” Snow shouts, and dodges a paw.

Fuck a nine toed troll, this is now how this was meant to fucking go. And now I’m going to have to get us out of this, because Snow is fucking useless at anything that doesn’t involve his sword, and his fucking toy is currently useless right now.

“Duck!” I shout, popping up and hurling spell after spell at the Chimera. Nothing lands; it either bounces off or goes right through. The serpent on the tail whips around and minorly misses biting Snow’s face by an inch. I dart forward, grab the back of Snow’s school jumper, and drag him back behind the rock.

“Fuck!” I shout again, slinging off another spell, but it’s useless. Nothing is getting at this thing. Maybe the Mage wouldn’t have been powerful enough to fight it off after all. Maybe it would have killed him.

I turn to Snow, who’s crouched next to me, panting and looking murderous.

“Do it,” I hiss. “Do it. Fucking unleash. Now.”

He glares at me and shakes his head, his blue eyes wide.

“I can’t! It doesn’t work like that!”

“It bloody well does,” I snap back, thinking of the dragon he vapourised first year. I’ve seen him do it. All he has to do is focus.

“I can’t just turn it on,” he argues back, and I almost growl in frustration. More flame sears our rock.

“Try!” I shout. “You have to fucking try!”

He looks terrified. He looks this way every time he has to do magic, like he’s scared of it.

“I can’t!” he argues. I scoff and lean over and grab the back of his neck, pulling his forehead in close to mine, just like Fiona does when she’s giving me a pep talk. It’s rough and uncomfortable but it always makes me feel better when she does it. I catch him off guard and his head nearly crashes into mine.

“Close your eyes,” I instruct. “Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder.”

It’s something my mother used to say. I don’t remember her saying it to me directly. But Fiona has told me. It’s how she harnessed her magic.

He squints at me.

“That’s fucking stupid,” he growls, and I sigh, squeezing at the back of his neck.

“The night you were high. You felt the music, yeah?” I ask, and I know he’s about to argue and tell me he wasn’t high, so I grip his neck tighter and he nods. I know my grip has to be so tight it’s probably hurting him.

“Close your eyes, imagine that you’re feeling that music, imagine you’re hearing Bowie, and then just… exhale the magic.”

He nods.

“Exhale,” he mutters, and nods again. “Exhale.”

“Atta boy!” I shout, letting go of his neck and shoving him out from behind the rock. “Go on, you fuck!”

Snow waves his sword around — the fucking numpty doesn’t even have his fucking wand out — and I see him close his eyes, trying to gather himself, but nothing happens.

“Feel the music!” I shout, throwing another spell at the Chimera. Snow growls and shakes his arm out, as if that’s going to help.

“Come on, Snow! Even you can fucking do this, just unleash!”

“I’m trying!” he yells back, and ducks as the Chimera takes a swipe at him. As it catches part of his shoulder, its claws become corporeal for just a moment — just long enough to leave a long, large gash. I dart out from the other side of the boulder and try to steal its attention away from him.

“Come on!” I shout at Snow. “ _This is ground control to Major Tom_!”

Snow nods, growls, shakes his arm. I can hear him muttering something to himself under his breath, over and over, something that sounds like _can you hear me Major Tom?_

He’s focusing, but it’s not working, and I’m just about ready to start hurling fucking rocks at him till something knocks his magic loose when the Chimera whips around and leaps at me.

I shoot a spell, but Snow is faster than me for once, dodging and bringing up his sword as the air around him ripples black and blue and waves of energy come crashing through his body. I’ve never seen him go off like this before, not even on the dragon. His eyes are white blue, his body lit up from inside with magic, the air thrumming with it, and as his sword connects with the Chimera a shuddering shock wave explodes around us and suddenly everything—

 

***

 

When I move, my muscles spasm. It’s mostly just when I wake up, which isn’t even the worst part of it all. I’m used to discomfort.

The worst part is that Simon Snow burnt off my eyebrow.

Everyone keeps telling me it looks fine and there’s no difference, but that’s only because i’ve been casting **_on fleek_ ** so that no one can tell that the right one is severely singed. I noticed it almost the moment I woke up in the fucking crater next to Snow after he went off.

It was dark — full dark — and Snow and I were laying in the smoking pit left behind by his magic. He was out cold, and I felt like I’d been put through a pulveriser. Small sparks of Snow’s magic still hung and crackled in the air, and a few landed on my skin, lighting up my nerves and making my eye twitch all over again.

“Snow?” I croaked, but he didn’t move. He was splayed out on his back, covered in dirt and soot, and for a moment, I thought he was dead.

I’m lying about the eyebrow. That wasn’t the worst part.

The thinking Snow was dead. That was. That was awful.

“Snow?” I repeated, scrambling over to him. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing, his skin was pale, and my mind was racing because I hadn’t actually _killed_ him, had I? That was never meant to happen. I was never meant to hurt him, I told Fiona I wouldn’t hurt him, I don’t _want_ to hurt him, even if he’s the most obnoxious person on the planet, he doesn’t deserve to be dead. This stupid, idiotic, disaster of a beautiful boy shouldn’t have died in a dirt pit after using David Bowie to launch a nuclear bomb.

But then he groaned, long and low and pulled a hand to his forehead, and I sat back on my heels and tried to breath very evenly. I ran my hands through my hair, which is how I discovered the eyebrow, and I cast the spell before Snow became fully awake.

I didn’t tell anyone about that bit. Because I didn’t use my wand.

I meant to. I meant to hold it up, but some of Snow’s magic drifted down onto my hand again, and just as I was thinking **_on fleek_** it lit up my system and I could feel the hair grow over and provide the glamour.

I did wandless magic. Using the residual magic that Simon Snow had let off into the atmosphere.

I don’t think I’ll ever tell anyone about that. Especially not that I used it to fix my eyebrow.

I must have slept like the dead last night, but it still takes years to drag myself out of bed and into the shower, and I roll my shoulders and massage my muscles and try to stop feeling like I’ve been hollowed out inside and filled with bees. Is this how Niall felt first year when he was in the blast zone? No wonder he was gun shy of Snow for awhile. I would be too.

I turn off the shower and get out and dressed, dreading going down to breakfast. Breakfast means that Snow will have had time to scamper off and tell the Mage everything I’ve done, and then I’m going to get called into his office and have to look that man in the eye. I haven’t decided if I should pretend I was going after Snow, or just tell the truth.

“I was actually trying to kill you, sir, but it didn’t work, since you sent a child to do your job. Clearly I failed. That should be punishment in and of itself, shouldn’t it?”

Somehow I doubt that line of defence will hold. Maybe I should kip out to that standing stone circle Snow keeps banging on about first. Get lost in the fog, have a nice contact high, then go face the music. The thought is actually wildly appealing, and I’m genuinely considering it when the door slams open and Simon Snow appears.

“The Humdrum attacked,” he says, glaring at me. I raise my fake eyebrow.

“When?”

“Last night. While we were blacked out in the woods. Worsegers.”

“ _Worsegers_?” I rather wish I’d seen that. They’re like badgers, but worse, and I’ve heard they’re absolutely adorable if they’re not rabid and eating your face off.

“Yup. Agatha and Niall and Keris ran them off.”

“Why are teachers never involved in these things?” I ask, but Snow ignores me.

“But they got into the dining hall and a couple people are seriously hurt. Trixie is in the infirmary, and Cook Pritchard had to be taken to London.”

“Because of _worsegers_?” I ask incredulously, my head still hung up on the fact that Cook Pritchard is hurt, and off the campus. She must have been really, seriously injured then.

Snow narrows his eyes and walks toward me.

“The Mage thinks the Chimera was sent by the Humdrum to get me away from the school,” he says, his voice tight and rough, his blue eyes angry. “Give me one reason not to tell him the truth.”

Why does this keep happening? Why does the Mage keep thinking I’m the Humdrum? There’s a fleeting part of me wondering if thus far every Humdrum attack has actually just been the work of someone trying to prank Simon Snow and the Mage.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, running my towel through my hair. “That whole scenario reeked of the Humdrum, the Mage is clearly on the right path. Cracking brilliant fellow, that one is.”

Snow slams his hand down on his desk and the slap rings out through the room. We haven’t tussled this year — which is a miracle — but it’s clear to us both suddenly that Snow got larger over the summer. Substantially larger. If I were human, he could break me like a twig.

Good thing I’m not.

“Don’t bullshit me, Baz. You did this. We both know you did this. _Why?_ Why were you trying to kill me? Why do you hate me so much?”

“Oh get over yourself,” I snarl, turning on him. “Not everything revolves around you, Snow. Did it occur to you that the Mage was supposed to come handle the monster, not send his puppy off to do it for him?”

“You were trying to kill the Mage?” Snow asks, his eyes wide, his anger ebbing away for a moment. Then it returns, like a tidal wave, more violent than before. “What the fuck, Baz? You were trying to kill him? Why would you do that? He’s not evil!”

“He took my music!” I roar into the room. Snow goes silent, and only now do I hear how fucking whiney I sound, how absolutely childish my excuse is. I lower my voice. “He made me write an essay about how my mother’s death helped his rise to power, and when he didn’t like what I had to say, he failed me and came to the room and took all my mother’s records and all my mother’s books. He left me with nothing. He had no right. He had no right to her books. He has taken _everything_ she ever had.”

Snow stares at me. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes locked on mine, his face screwed up into a wrinkled mess of confusion.

“That doesn’t mean you kill him,” he says.

“He’s a monster. You kill monsters every day. Tell me how we’re different.”

“He’s a human!” Snow shouts. “And a good man! He shouldn’t have taken your mum’s things, but it’s only because you and your lot keep antagonising him and keeping him from doing his job. Your lot are always trying to fuck something up!”

“My lot?” I say, laughing shrilly. “Fuck you, Snow. I don’t hate him because of some stupid political power move, I hate him because he’s a piece of shit. He uses people. He hurts people. Don’t you see that? He uses you more than anyone. He hurts you more than anyone. How can you be so fucking blind?”

“Me?” Snow looks like I’ve slapped him, and he’s shaking his head, his eyes wide. His magic is filling the room, that smoky, green scent that sticks to my clothes and makes me feel lightheaded and that lingers on my tongue for hours. Snow looks impossibly small suddenly, and I have the urge to cross the room and pull him into a hug. To put my hand on the back of his neck like I did last night and tell him it’ll be alright.

I shake my head and try to refocus, even through the cloud of Snow’s magic. Maybe that’s where this weird fixation on him has come from. Maybe I’ve just got a permanent contact high from being around Snow and his anxious magic so much.

“The Mage doesn’t use me,” he says, but the fight has gone out of him. “The Mage has given me everything. He’s a good person.”

He says it blankly, like it’s a script he’s memorised. Rote recitation.

I grab my coat from the back of my chair and pull it on, never breaking eye contact. Poor, beautiful, broken Simon Snow. He doesn’t know up from down, and his head’s been so thoroughly messed with that he might even be more fucked up inside than I am.

“If he’s such a good person,” I say, pushing past him to open the door, “then why are you terrified of him?”

 

***

 

Watford has gone on lock down.

Students aren’t allowed outside the walls of campus anymore. The pitch is off limits, as are the Woods. We have a curfew, which students are only allowed to break to go to the library. Everyone is twitchy, because the Humdrum allegedly attacked three times on the same day.

The worsegers. The chimera. And a huge dead spot opened up in Wales.

Snow, for reasons I don’t understand, didn’t rat me out. The Mage never showed up to kick me out or punish me further. There’s been no blowback against it at all, except for one thing:

Simon Snow won’t stop fucking following me.

He’s everywhere I go. To class, to makeshift football practise on the lawn. Shaking him to slip into the kitchen at night to get my blood has been bloody difficult, and to make matters worse, the stock that Franny had is dipping dangerously low. The Mage has another staff member filling in, and they’re obviously not going to be ordering more blood, which means that unless she comes back soon, my nice blood supply is going to be gone, and I’m going to have to hunt.

But the Woods are closed off. Which means I’m going to have to go back to rats.

The thought makes me shudder, so I push it off, slipping out the back of the kitchen and into the dark of the night as I hurry toward the library. A shape behind me moves. Snow. He’s not subtle. He’s horrifically bad at this, but I don’t call him on it.

We haven’t spoken since the blow up in our room, and I think I’ve actually hurt him. He’s been closed off and hostile, and sometimes at night I can hear his breathing pick up, like he’s panicking. I watch him when that happens — my night vision is brilliant — just to make sure he’s okay. That he doesn’t set the bed on fire with his idiocy. I could call out, ask if he needs anything, but I don’t.

It wouldn’t go well.

And anyway, I don’t care.

The library is mercifully warm, and I take up my spot at my usual table, far from the main doors. Bunce isn’t here tonight, so I’ve the table to myself, and I quickly spread out my things. What with my assassination attempts and all, I’m falling dangerously behind on my French homework.

Snow settles in at a table near the door, presumably so that I have to walk by him to leave. Classic Snow. He’s completely forgotten there’s a back exit. If I didn’t have to finish an essay, I’d leave and go back to the room, just to see his confused face when he comes back to find me.

I’ve just about put a dent in my homework when I look up to see Agatha Wellbelove slide into the vacant chair beside me. She’s wearing my jacket again, and she carefully unwinds a pink scarf from around her neck before unpacking her books.

“Wellbelove,” I say with a nod, praying this isn’t going to turn into a chat. She smiles at me sweetly and flips open her book.

“How are you doing, Baz?”

“Alright, I suppose,” I answer. “I’d be a lot better if you’d call off your dog.” I jerk my head toward where Snow is sitting, watching us intently.

Wellbelove wrinkles her brow.

“He’s not my dog,” she protests, then sighs. “Don’t worry about Simon. He just thinks you’re up to something or that you’re going to try to hurt him and the Mage.”

I stay silent. He’s half right.

“I’ve told him he’s got the wrong idea about you. I know you wouldn’t do something like that. That you’re not like that.”

I don’t tell her that she’s wrong. I’m exactly like that.

“Look, I know the Mage took your records. I think that was really awful of him,” Wellbelove whispers, leaning in close as she pulls something out of her pocket. “I’ve got an illegal mobile as well, so I can talk to my parents and listen to music. Everyone has one. It was awful of him to target you.”

“Well, all’s fair and all that,” I say, my voice strained, as I look away from Wellbelove’s lap. Snow is staring so intently at us that I think he may set us on fire. Knowing his magic, it’s absolutely a possibility. I shift slightly, and Wellbelove looks up and sees him. She sighs.

“He also…” she starts, then stops, biting on her lip. “He also thinks you’re interested in me.”

Oh, Aleister fucking Crowley, I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this.

If I were a worse person, I’d use this. It’s obvious that Snow has a crush on Wellbelove, everyone can see it. It’s revolting how he moons after her and stares at her and gets all huffy while she’s around. She’s beautiful. There’s pretty much no reason for a boy our age to not be in love with her.

Well. There’s one reason.

I could go for it, though. I could hide my secret and piss off Snow in one go, and judging from the hopeful way she’s blinking up at me, I wouldn’t even have to date her to do it. Just lead her on a bit.

But Fiona would slaughter me if she found out that I used a girl like that.

“Uh, no,” I say instead, shifting my body away from hers a bit. I laugh. “No, definitely not.”

Too late, I realise how callous my words sound, because Wellbelove’s face shuts down.

“Oh. Right then,” she says, clearly offended and also working through the inexplicable concept of someone not wanting her.

“You’re just not my type,” I rush to say, but that makes it worse somehow, and her hurt transforms into a piercing glare.

“What, am I not edgy enough for you?” she snaps, reaching for her books to pack up.

I survey her. At every step, I have misjudged and undervalued her. Maybe I should — I mean, I’m not embarrassed by it. I’m not ready to let my gay flag fly, but I’m not embarrassed, and I plan to tell Dev and Niall soon. Of all the weird, fucked up things about me, this isn’t one I feel the need to hide.

“I’m gay,” I say quietly, reaching out to put my hand on top of hers. I’m not really one for physical touch, but for some reason I feel the need to soften this blow.

Wellbelove freezes, her eyes going wide.

“Oh,” she says, then nods. “Oh, alright.” She laughs a bit and throws her sheet of blonde hair behind her, and turns back to me. “Who else knows?”

That’s not the question I was expecting.

“Uh, my aunt Fiona. You. Professor Hollow.”

I blush a bit at that last one. It’s a hard to explain why your Classics professor knows you’re gay, but luckily Wellbelove just raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow (she probably uses **_on fleek_** too) and moves on, and gazes at me like she’s sizing me up.

“How do you always seem to know exactly what you want?”

“What?”

“You always know what you want,” she repeats, locking her warm brown eyes onto my face. “You know yourself so well, Baz. You never worry about what people are going to think of you. How?”

I do worry what people will think. I worry all the time, but it’s not like I can tell her that being gay and listening to loud music is easy compared to being a vampire.

I look away from her then and try to collect my thoughts.

“It’s easy to be yourself when you let go of what others want. You will never be able to be exactly what other people want from you, no matter how hard you try. The sooner you stop trying, the easier it is to figure out what you actually want,” I say. My voice is soft, but there’s a bite to it. “And I suppose that being a naturally selfish person helps.”

Wellbelove gazes at me, barely blinking, and then her eyes flick to Snow, sitting at the table across the room and watching our every interaction, not even pretending to read the book he has propped up in front of him. He and I make eye contact for a fleeting second, and then I look back at Wellbelove.

“No…” she says slowly, reaching to collect her books. “No, I don’t think you actually are a selfish person, Baz.”

She puts her books back in her bag and stands, throwing it over her shoulder and winding her scarf around her neck.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she says, then leans down and places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Have a nice night, Baz.”

She’s gone quickly, before I’m able to process what really happened. I fumble for my notebook, but I’m hit with a wave of foul smelling smoke. Around the room whispers and shouts go up, and I look over to see Snow glaring at me, his magic rolling off of him in waves, the smoke going everywhere. The librarian hurries over to him and leans down and whispers something, then flaps her hands at him, clearly telling him to hurry up. He stands up quickly, toppling his chair in the process, grabs his one book — which I’m fairly sure is a library book — and runs out the door, the scent of his magic lingering behind him.

 

***

 

It’s empty. Aleister fucking Crowley, it’s empty.

A horror fills me as I stare at the empty shelves of the small fridge where Cook Pritchard always keeps my blood. I must look like an idiot, crouched here in the dark, lit up only by the blue glow of the fridge, staring at it in shock. But it’s _empty_.

I’ve been so careful. I counted how much blood was left and I’ve been going longer between feedings and drinking only half a carton each time. It’s been slowing me down, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get to the Wood, and I thought if I was really conservative, I could stretch the supply until we left for Christmas, but it’s empty.

There should be one carton left, but it’s gone, because someone threw it away.

I’ve already pushed myself far longer than I should have without feeding. I have to feed tonight, or by tomorrow I’ll be sweating and shaking and too hungry to move and I’ll have to just lay in my bed and start to decay until someone brings me blood or Snow takes pity on me and kills me.

Usually that would seem like an attractive option, but it’s probably not on the table currently, as Snow has been a bit preoccupied the past few weeks. What with the fact that he’s now dating Wellbelove, and everything.

Dev is gutted, naturally. I’m the only thing keeping him together. He’s a wreck when we see them about campus, holding hands on the way to class or sitting cosily in the dining hall. Dev keeps feeling an irrational anger, which is ridiculous, because it’s not like he’s jealous — really, he just can’t understand what Wellbelove sees in Snow. It’s definitely not jealousy. Why would he care who Snow dates? It’s not like it’s a surprise anyway, those two have been mooning after each other for years. And Wellbelove did just tell me she was going to take what she wants, and I suppose she wants this, which is fine. I’m happy she’s happy. I don’t give a fuck about Snow.

Dev doesn’t give a fuck about Snow. Is what I meant.

Anyway, I guess I’ll have to go to the catacombs to hunt.

There’s no one around when I peek my head out of the dining hall, so I march quickly across the Lawn and into the White Chapel without looking back. It appears that once he realised I wasn’t going to steal his girl, Snow gave up following me around. For a month and a half I haven’t been able to go anywhere without him trailing behind me like a dog, and suddenly he’s gone.

I’m not complaining, of course. It’s nice, to finally be alone again. To have Snow stop obsessing over me. Pathetic, really. He’s completely pathetic.

Once in, I pull my mobile from my pocket — thank Crowley the Mage didn’t take this too — and put my headphones in. I press play on Mordelia’s playlist, because it soothes me, and close my eyes as _A Case Of You_ fills my mind.  

I had felt a bit dumb about putting this song on the playlist, because liking Joni Mitchell isn’t properly punk or even punk at all. But it’s so… nice, I suppose. Anyway, Mordelia likes it. Sometimes we sing it in the car. It calms me, is the point, and I need calming, because I absolutely do not want to do this.

Past the Poet’s Corner, through the door, down the stairs. If I turn left, the path will take me to my mother’s tomb, but I don’t want to do this in front of her. I’ll visit her after, perhaps, when I’m feeling better.

“ ** _Come out come out wherever you are_** ,” I cast as I walk down the corridor. Rats come skittering out and I grab them and break their necks as I go, collecting enough to get me through the next few days until I’m back home and Fiona can go to the butcher’s for me. I take more than I usually would, because I’ve been practically starving myself, and because why the fuck not. I’m a fucking vampire. Let’s eat.

When I’ve collected enough, I dart into a side room, a chamber filled with bones stacked on each other in an intricate formation that looks like it’s meant to be an archway. It’s chilling, and a suitable scene for this, I suppose.

Joni Mitchell ends and The Undertones come on. _Teenage Kicks_.

 _I wanna hold her wanna hold her tight, get teenage kicks right through the night_.

I almost skip this song, because it makes me think of Snow. He mumble sings it sometimes when he’s not paying attention. Of all the fucking songs of mine to latch on to, I hate that he chose this one. It probably makes him think of Wellbelove. She’s the kind of girl who inspires songs like this, after all. With her perfect blonde hair and big brown eyes and new “can do attitude.”

 _“You always know what you want_ ,” she’d said. I scoff as I think of it. What do I want? Wellbelove thinks I’ve got it all figured out, but I don’t. I know I don’t want to be doing this — that’s easy to figure out, at least. I grimace as I drain the first rat, and toss it beside me.

I want the Mage dead. Or at least out of the scenario. I don’t want to be a murderer, but I don’t want him to live. Riddle that one out.

Two more rats go in that fashion, and I choke a bit on the taste. The blood that Pritchard has been supplying me with has spoiled me.

I don’t want to be a vampire. I don’t want to have to be down here, doing this. I don’t want to have to be a monster.

Crowley, I hate it down here. This isn’t a place for the living. This isn’t a place for good people.

Snow would never be down here, skulking around, leeching life out of other things. Because Snow is so alive — he’s so full of vibrancy and sun and petty emotions and fucking magic. He’s so full of magic that I can taste it, even down here, just thinking of him.

That’s what I want, if I’m being honest with myself. I want to stop thinking of him. I want to stop watching him at night and staring at his chin and remembering him stretched out on his bed, listening to David Bowie, smiling at me in the evening sun.

I want to not find him attractive.

I want to not want him.

It’s like my ludicrous crush on Professor Hollow all over again, except ten times worse. At least back then I could live in closeted denial of what was going on, and while it’s embarrassing to have a crush on your teacher, it still falls in the realms of normal.

None of this is normal. Getting a boner while thinking about my idiotic, golden roommate sucking on the lid of a Biro is not normal. Hating his girlfriend — who has never been anything but kind to me — is not normal.

Being weak enough to fall for the Chosen One because he has a pretty face and good intentions and a tragic backstory isn’t normal. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic, and I’m so completely and utterly out of my depth.

A hysterical laugh escapes me. My life is impressively, monumentally fucked up.

There’s a crashing noise behind me suddenly, and I spin, startled that I heard it through my music. There’s nothing there — but I know I wasn’t alone. The pile of bones stacked delicately by the door has been toppled, skulls scattered everywhere. I pull my headphones out just in time to hear the pounding of feet along the hallway, running away from me.

I don’t need to follow to know who it was. I can still smell his magic.

I wipe the blood from my mouth and try not to panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS FEATURED IN THIS CHAPTER**
> 
> [God Save The Queen](https://open.spotify.com/track/6ui6l3ZNvlrGQZArwo8195?si=JCQ9bGTxTIyvnlnL5cr3og) \-- The Sex Pistols
> 
> [Sunny Afternoon](https://open.spotify.com/track/0DQqzCHlPyKQXfF8uL01SI?si=bxejFMYKT4WktEqS8glVZA) \-- The Kinks
> 
> [Asleep](https://open.spotify.com/track/7LZgdL0MxiElfaKZbuuE4l?si=rGBhhNM1S8a582zI2SemrA) \-- The Smiths
> 
> [Here Comes Your Man](https://open.spotify.com/track/0cs671lxX2eoDzr2KMuo3N?si=mbeuZxXQRNGXY-3iCJguiQ) \-- The Pixies
> 
> [Sunday Morning](https://open.spotify.com/track/3lX49Bqy21Y5HneUJ7p55G?si=zKTEh47eQQmICfIxuncYhA) \-- The Velvet Underground
> 
> [Moonage Daydream](https://open.spotify.com/track/6mib3N4E8PZHAGQ3xy7bho?si=6MaTDURkTyGgMTjAzrrIOQ) \-- David Bowie
> 
> [Oh! You Pretty Things](https://open.spotify.com/track/7Js4OF5MUb2bqJe09g4uQE?si=J9E-pszXTTyZRWV4dlozgw) \-- David Bowie
> 
> [Space Oddity](https://open.spotify.com/track/72Z17vmmeQKAg8bptWvpVG?si=DaQZzQ90SPGYFKpQP52tmQ) \-- Davie Bowie
> 
> [A Case Of You](https://open.spotify.com/track/7shVwhUdVbHpykOfbzvDc1?si=1z3rAoovRUuA0_Aj-TAFiQ) \-- Joni Mitchell
> 
> [Teenage Kicks](https://open.spotify.com/track/7ATyLePQnHxFk5kzxWCcsh?si=e_HWq4kOTQq97kjmOseOgQ) \-- The Undertones


	8. Here Comes Your Man | Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR FIVE, PART 2: Confessions, obsessions, low blood sugar, French homework and tuxedo trakkies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Mordelia's  **[Tired Punks and Little Puffs](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/6fsCcfJXqtT02LrngCHvS1?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) ** playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=HBMHv1B5RzaMa-nznCaYWg) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**  [Here Comes Your Man](https://open.spotify.com/track/0cs671lxX2eoDzr2KMuo3N?si=mbeuZxXQRNGXY-3iCJguiQ) -- The Pixies
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello! Thank you for waiting for this chapter so patiently. You're all wonderful. As mentioned, we're going to be sweving wildly from canon going forward, so I hope you forgive me. Thanks for reading and commenting and I love you dearly! x - Ban

“Have you noticed anything… odd?”

“I mean, he’s Baz. You’ve got to be more clear.”

“He’s been slamming around here for days. I’ve never seen him in a mood like this, and if I hear one of those fucking song one more time—”

I slam on the piano keys harder, trying to drown out the hushed conversation Fiona and Niall are having in the kitchen. I do switch off of The Smiths though, and start violently plucking out The Distillers, just to give Fiona some variety.

“He’s done this before,” Niall whispers. “Third year.”

“What happened?”

I realise that the song I’m slaughtering is _Drain The Blood_ , and I have the sudden, violent image of Simon Snow watching me drain a rat. I actually cringe when I think of it, so I switch songs mid-chorus, thundering into _Beat Your Heart Out._

“No idea,” Niall whispers. Fuck my vampire hearing. I play louder. “He showed up in our room a day before the end of term and asked if he could sleep there. I don’t think he went back to his room once before we left.”

“So it’s Snow,” Fiona says darkly. I slam down onto an F that should probably be an F# and curse that I play piano. These songs would song much better if I could play them on an actual fucking guitar. I abandon The Distillers and meander back onto The Smiths.

I get through the first bar of _Unloveable_ before something heavy thuds into the back of my head.

The song cuts off in a clang of mismatched notes and I pick up the tin of Quality Street that was just thrown at me from the doorway of the kitchen. It burst open during the collision, and I’m surrounded by a dozen brightly wrapped candies which are littering the floor like the remnants of a massacre.

“What the actual fuck—” I start, rubbing at my bruised skull, but Fiona cuts me off.

“We’re out of milk. Go to the store and get some, or I’m burning that piano and taking you with it.”

“We don’t drink milk,” I say, frowning. “Niall is lactose intolerant.”

“Then go to the store and get some fucking bread, I don’t care, just stop playing the fucking piano,” Fiona snaps, marching back into the kitchen. I hear the rustling noise of her picking up her cigarettes, and I sigh.

She’s been trying to weedle information out of me since I got back, but I haven’t said anything to her. How can I? If she knows Snow now knows my secret, she’ll drive to Watford tonight and kill him herself.

It’s bad enough that I’ve spent the entire break waiting for the Mage to come pound on the door and drag me away to the Coven to have my teeth pulled out and my wand snapped. I don’t need to get Fiona involved too.

But then again, I have no idea what’s going to happen when I get back to school. I didn’t give Snow the chance to call me out or question me. I just avoided him. I didn’t go to meals. I saw him walking toward our room on the morning that we all left for break — he went home with the Wellbeloves, of course — and I actually hid behind a wall so he wouldn’t see me.

The entire thing makes me feel pathetic and unbalanced and so, so _scared_.

“Er—” Niall says, looking around the room. We haven’t even put a tree up yet because Fiona was waiting for me and I’ve been too big of a tit to get into the spirit. It hasn’t been a very festive holiday for Niall, all things considered, which is pretty shit of me, considering he spent the last one depressed and possessed.

“Look, I,—” I start, just as Niall goes, “Do you want to talk?”

We both stare at each other.

“I think you should talk to me,” he continues. “I know something is up, but… you know, I’ve been possessed. So. I think, whatever it is, I’ll get it.”

I don’t know why people think I’m the mature one of the group.

My mind is racing. What do I even possibly tell him? Simon Snow caught me draining a rat because I’m a vampire and I was down in the fucking catacombs because I eat rats and this is all very scary and I should be worried about being killed but I’m such a fucking mess that honestly my biggest concern at the moment is that I’m kind of obsessed with Snow and I know he’s straight and has a girlfriend and also hates me but sometimes we sort of get along and now he’ll be scared of me?

That sounds nice and concise.

“I’m just…” I say, sighing. “Having a mood. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t seem fine,” Niall says, sitting on the sofa and picking up one of the Strawberry Delights that popped out of the Quality Street tin.

“We’re not doing this,” I say, clenching my hand at my side. “It’s fine.”

“If you think that I’ll judge you because of whatever you’re going to tell me, I won’t,” Niall says, not looking at me. “I know you’ve been going through something. And, you know, like I keep saying, I had a demon in me, so…” he laughs. “I don’t think you can top that for fucked up.” He unwraps the candy slowly and then looks up at me. “I’m your best friend. I’m not going to make a runner.”

I take a breath.

I guess we’re doing this.

What does it matter, anyway? He’ll find out soon enough, when the Mage comes to kill me. I’d rather he hear it from me than through the World of Mages grapevine.

“I’m a vampire.”

Everytime I say these things — tell my secrets — I think that it’ll get easier. Telling Wellbelove I like men wasn’t too bad. I’d done it twice before, so I had practise. This shouldn’t have been any different.

Except it is.

Everything hangs between us, a heavy silence. Niall’s eyes are wide, the candy forgotten in his hand.

“I was Turned when my mother and I were attacked when I was five,” I say, my voice slipping into a cold, impersonal tone. “I started having to drink blood third year. I largely drink pig’s blood that Pritchard gets for me. I don’t drink from people.”

Niall just stares. Finally he blinks, closes his mouth, and nods.

“Dev and I thought you were gay,” he says. My stomach flips. “We thought… alright. Yeah. We were wrong.”

I think about it, just getting it all out there, but I don’t.

“You can’t tell a soul,” I say. “I’ll use magic to ensure it, if I have to.”

Niall shoots up out of his seat and crosses the room to the window. I notice that he watches me as he moves, not letting me out of his sight.

Is he _scared_ of me?

“Sorry, I need a moment,” he says, putting his head to the window. Dark auburn hair falls into his eyes, and he stares out at the quickly darkening London skyline. My stomach is bubbling. He can’t handle it. It’s too much. I should never have done this.

I reach for my wand slowly, so as not to startle him, and prepare to cast a highly illegal memory charm.

He turns just as my wand comes up, and his eyes go wide.

“What the fuck,” he says, scrambling away from the window and tripping over a chair. He sprawls on the ground and stares up at me. “Baz, what are you—”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” I say, shaking my head. My throat is tight. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for this Niall, but you understand.”

I raise my wand and Niall scoots backward.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you absolute fucking cockstain!” he shouts at me. “I don’t care if you’re a vampire but don’t fucking touch my memories!”

My wand lowers.

What the fuck is wrong with me? This is Niall. This is my best friend. I keep telling myself I’m not a monster, but then I do things like this. I keep hurting people, I keep hurting things I keep—

“Hey,” Niall says, staggering to his feet, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s all good, mate, it’s alright.”

There must be something in my expression, because he’s hovering in front of me, not quite touching, but looking like he wants to reach out. My head is buzzing, my face feels numb and my hands are clenching and unclenching and I feel like I can’t breathe.

“Simon saw me,” I say. My voice is quiet and still, despite the fact that I feel like I’m falling apart. I’m going to be killed. Or maimed. Or have my wand taken away. “He saw me draining a rat because Pritchard was hurt. Just before the end of term. He’s going to tell the Mage.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Niall and I both look up to see Fiona standing in the doorway of the kitchen. A cigarette is hanging from her lips, and her dark hair — normally pulled up and tucked away, is loose, like she just pulled her ponytail out in frustration. The white streak is hanging in front of her eyes, and she looks like she could kill me.

I stay silent. I don’t have an answer for her, other than that I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.

“If he had told the Mage, we’d know by now,” Fiona says darkly. “The Mage would have wasted no time. And someone on the Coven would know. I’d have been notified.”

“Why you?”

Fiona crossed the room to an old trunk that’s currently holding a handful of books and an ashtray. I’ve never seen it opened in my entire life. Once, when I was seven, I asked Fiona what was in it, and she said corpses.

“I’ve a reputation as a bit of a vampire expert, when it comes to the Coven,” she says, clearing the books off the top and opening the trunk with a deafening screech. “Niall, go into Baz’s room and stay there.”

“What? Why?”

Fiona turns to glare at him, and Niall turns red.

“Because you’re a shit liar, and I’m giving you deniability. Just because Baz let you in on his secret doesn’t mean you get to be privy to mine, kid. Now go.”

She barks out the final order like a drill sergeant, and Niall scatters. I forget, sometimes, that I’m the only person who gets treated to Fiona’s soft side.

“You didn’t have to talk to him like—” I start, but Fiona interrupts.

“Shut up and come here,” she says, gesturing me to the trunk. She pulls out an object that’s been wrapped in a plaid flannel shirt and unfolds it carefully.

“What is that?” I ask as she unveils a very old, dinky looking tape recorder. It looks like something out of _The X-Files_ and I’ve no idea where Fiona dug this up.

“That’s up to you,” she says, shaking loose the last of the flannel. “It can be a weapon, or it can be self defence. But the important thing is that it gives you a chance. If you decide to use it, just press this button,” she says, pointing to a red button in the middle. “But no matter what you do, do not speak while it’s on. And only use it around people you’re willing to hurt.”

“I’m not willing to hurt anyone,” I say, backing away from the tape recorder and shaking my head. “No. No. I’m not killing anyone, not even the Mage. I want him dead, but I won’t be a murderer.”

“It won’t kill them,” Fiona snaps, folding the tape recorder back up. “I promise it will not physically or mentally or in anyway hurt or injure the person you use it on. But it’ll take them out of the field, or at the very least, give you time to get away.”

I should ask what it does. I should ask what it does and where she got it and why this thing smells like it’s leaking magic, and then I should tell her to go fuck herself and throw it in the Thames.

But I’m so scared.

“Do not speak while it’s on,” she says again, wrapping it back up and handing it to me.

I shouldn’t take it. This is how I become a monster. This is how I give in to the dark creature inside of me.

But I keep thinking about the sound of Snow’s footsteps as he ran away from me. It doesn’t matter. I already am a monster.

I take the recorder and nod, then gingerly put it in my pocket.

“Thanks, Fi,” I croak out. She stares at me, long and hard and piercing, then grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in to kiss my forehead. She’s never really done that before. She’s not big on physical affection.

“I believe in you, and I’m proud of you,” she says. Then she lets go of my neck and slams the trunk closed. “Go put that somewhere safe and go take Niall for curry or something. I think he’s about to piss himself.”

 

***

 

“Do you want me to stay?”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, and it’s half true. I unpack my socks from my duffel and turn back to Niall. “There’s no need to be a mother hen, I’m fine.”

“Right, but if he—”

“I can handle Snow,” I say, my voice tight. I know I can handle Snow. The problem is that I just don’t want to. “I’m fine, really. Go find Dev.”

Niall nods and pushes up from his perch on my bed, then pauses.

“Are you going to tell Dev? About…” he trails off, and I shake my head.

“No, I hadn’t planned on it,” I respond. Niall and I haven’t talked much about the whole vampire thing, but I know it’s been weighing on him. I know he has questions he’s dying to get answers to, but he’s too good of a person to ask.

He nods several times, and licks his lips.

“Right. Yeah. That’s… I think that’s for the best. He’s not like… me,” he says, trailing off, and I know what’s hanging unsaid between us. Niall is a good sort, but his family isn’t as old and established as the Grimms and Pitches. Dev’s my mate, and I know he loves me, but some old prejudices die hard. Best to not rock the boat.

I nearly jump when he puts his hands on each of my shoulders and leans in, forcing eye contact.

“Seriously though,” he says, his voice gentle yet direct. “If Snow says or does anything, let me know, we can always jump—”

The door bursts open in a flurry of activity, and Simon Snow, the devil himself, stands in the doorway. He lingers longer than he usually does, standing stock-still in the middle of the door. His blue eyes bore into me like a challenge. Niall lets go of my shoulders and steps back, but I notice he’s still placed himself solidly between Snow and myself.

He’s an idiot, but he’s a bloody good friend.

“Snow,” I say, nodding curtly. I’m determined to keep this as normal as possible. If I act scared of him, it’ll give him an opening. My hope is to maybe try to convince him he hallucinated it, or maybe do a memory spell on him while he sleeps.

“...Baz,” he says slowly, glancing between Niall and me. I clear my throat and nod slightly, and Niall takes this as his cue and gives me a small salute before slipping from the room. I turn my back to Snow and continue unpacking.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” I ask without looking at him, then cringe. Too nice. Far too nice. “I’m sure you and Wellbelove had fun playing house.”

There. That’s a bit shittier.

“It was fine, thanks,” Snow growls, opening up his drawer and emptying his entire duffle into it. He doesn’t even sort out his pants and socks. Some of that might be dirty. Crowley, I can’t handle watching this.

“Thrilling,” I say, straightening up. I dust an imaginary spot from my trousers and nod. “Well, see you.”

I almost run out of the door that Niall just exited, and I’m cursing myself for how fucking weird I’m acting. I almost expect Snow to chase me, to stop me at the top of the stairs and shove his sword through my heart. But there’s silence, so instead I descend the staircase in one piece and make my way to the library.

It’s the first day back. No one should be here yet because there’s no schoolwork to be done yet, but I don’t care. I’ve been making it a habit to come regularly when the library is empty and pick through the carts of books to be shelved, just in case the Mage actually gave my mother’s books back to the library.

I don’t think he’d do that — probably because he knows I’d just steal them — but I suppose I keep clinging to some glimmer of hope about it anyway.

I scan the racks quickly but don’t see any familiar spines, so instead I grab a book about dead spells and settle in at a table. I can easily stay here until mealtime, and then maybe come back after. There’s absolutely no reason why I can’t just live here and in Dev and Niall’s room for the rest of my life.

Unless people decide to bother me, that is.

“Basilton,” Bunce says as she slides into the seat across from me, slamming her bag down. Wellbelove follows a moment later, making a far more graceful and quiet entrance.

I can barely look at Wellbelove, as it turns out, without thinking of Snow, and this pisses me off far more than I expected.

“What?” I snap at Bunce, not looking up from my book. I can practically feel the loaded glances the two girls are giving each other.

“Have a nice Christmas?” Wellbelove asks, and I want to scream.

“Charming, you?”

“Oh, it was great, actually, we—”

“Delightful,” I interrupt. “What do you two want?”

Silence. Heavy, awkward, silence. Then Bunce sighs, reaches over, and takes the book out of my hands.

“Are you a vampire?”

My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead. So he did tell someone. Apparently not the Mage, but he told Bunce, at the very least, and clearly Wellbelove as well, because she doesn’t look surprised — merely exasperated, I think, by Bunce’s bluntness.

“What?”

“Are you a vampire?” Bunce repeats calmly. My eyes flick to Wellbelove. Neither of the girls look very scared. Wellbelove looks annoyed, and Bunce seems to be passingly interested.

“What the fuck?” I say, staring at them. I furrow my brow in my best Snow impression, to look triply confused. “Why the fuck would I be a vampire?”

“Simon,” Bunce says, and Wellbelove sighs. I look at her for explanation.

“Simon thinks he saw you…” Wellbelove trails off and shifts uncomfortably.

“Laughing maniacally while sucking the blood out of rats in a tomb,” Bunce finishes.

I just stare at them. I’m very good at making people feel stupid. Perhaps if I just stay silent and look as disappointed as possible, they’ll squirm.

It doesn’t take long.

“I told him he was probably mistaken,” Wellbelove says after what feels like ages.

“Did you now?” I say lightly. Bunce is staring at me, and I take a deep breath, trying to look like I’m  pissed off yet amused, instead of pissed off and fucking terrified.

“Why were you in a tomb?” Bunce says, direct and as blunt as ever.

“My mother is buried down there,” I say, meeting her eyes. She has the decency to deflate a bit. “Sometimes I visit her when I’m upset. I take her flowers.”

“Oh, Baz,” Wellbelove says, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm, her big brown eyes wide. Bunce tracks the motion with an interested expression, and I pull my arm away.

“And the laughing?”

I stare at Bunce.

“Sometimes I visit when I’m upset,” I repeat.

“And you laugh?”

“I was upset,” I reiterate, and finally Wellbelove prods Bunce in the side.

“Penny, he was crying,” she whispers in her friend’s ear. She probably assumes I can’t hear her. But, you know. Vampire. Bunce’s eyebrows furrow and she looks back at me.

“Why were you upset?” she asks, tilting her head to the side like I’m an experiment.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I say, but my eyes flick to Wellbelove before I can stop them. Bunce’s eyebrows raise, like she’s had some kind of epiphany.

Fine. Whatever. Let her think I was so gutted over Wellbelove dating Snow that I ran down to my mother’s tomb to have a nice sob. Whatever. It’s pathetic, but far better than her knowing the truth, which is that I was so gutted over Snow dating Wellbelove that I ran down to drain some rats and have a nervous breakdown.

Bunce’s expression softens, and between she and Wellbelove, I have two sets of soppy doe eyes staring at me, and it’s enough to make me want to flip the table and set the place on fire.

I gather my books quickly and set them in a neat stack at the end of the table, then stand up.

“This has been delightful, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to go drown myself,” I say, nodding at them and pulling on my coat.

“Wait!” Bunce says, jumping up. Her eyes look manic. “What about the rats?”

I stare at her for a moment before looking around, then lean in, placing my hands on the table as if I’m about to let the girls in on a secret.

“I don’t know if either of you noticed,” I say softly. “But Snow spent the majority of last term out at the standing stones, getting high from the fog. I once found him in bed with my crisps laughing his head off at David Bowie. I wouldn’t exactly trust his testimony in a court of law, if you catch my drift.”

Both of them stare at me, and I nod again.

“Happy New Year, eh?” I say, then turn and head back out into the cold night air, trying to think of somewhere else to go to avoid Snow and his harem.

 

***

 

Simon Snow and Agatha Wellbelove are making out in front of the dining hall doors.

Well. Not making out. Rather they’re doing that thing where they’re holding hands and pressing their foreheads together and looking sickeningly, horrifyingly adorable and I’m sure they’re muttering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

I wrap my scarf around my neck and surreptitiously turn up _Can’t Hardly Wait_ even louder so that my super hearing can’t pick up their conversation, and edge past them while trying not to vomit. Hopefully The Replacements can drown them out.

I’m trying to be a good sport about this, really. It’s pathetic of me to be upset by the fact that Snow has a girlfriend. I _like_ Wellbelove. She and Snow are a good fit. She’ll give him beautiful, Chosen One babies one day to go along with their perfect, beautiful Chosen One life.

And Snow is straight. He is straight, and he hates me, and thinks I’m a monster, and even if all those things weren’t true, I hate him and I have no interest in him at all even if he is that strange subsection of gorgeous and adorable and sickeningly brave while also frustratingly shitty, which is honestly something that I need in a boyfriend, because, I mean, I’m me, and I could never date anyone who was entirely good, could I?

Anyway, I hate him.

I manage to duck into the dining hall without Sid and Nancy noticing me and make my way carefully to the kitchens. Pritchard nods at me as I take my blood and sneak into the walk in freezer. I call up a flame in my hand and warm the blood as much as I dare, then drink it down in one. I’m antsy to get out of here and away from Snow, so I don’t heat it as much as I normally do, and it chokes a bit going down. But still. It does the job.

Pritchard doesn’t look at me when I come back out, but slides a butty toward me silently. She’s on a mission to fatten me up, I think. Ever since I got back from Christmas, she’s been practically forcing food on me. I think she might feel bad about leaving me alone last term, even though it’s completely not her fault.

I study the bacon butty for a moment before I give in with a sigh and shove it in my mouth.

“You know, you really don’t have to—” I start, but I’m interrupted by the door banging open. Snow stands in the entrance of the kitchen, his eyes narrowed, looking like he’s here to bust up a mafia ring.

“What are you doing in here?” Cook Pritchard says, her hands going to her hips. Snow stares at me, caught in the middle of chewing, the butty still raised halfway to my houth.

“Why are you eating?” Snow blurts. I raise an eyebrow, and he blushes. “I mean,” he starts again. “Why are you always lurking around here?”

Cook Pritchard stares between us, a mildly alarmed look on her face. I swallow and raise the butty.

“I’m eating,” I say dryly, and Snow’s brow furrows.

“You don’t eat during meals, and you come here every day,” he says, undeterred by the fact that he’s acting like a complete wally right now. I pray that I can bluff my way out of this before he starts digging through the rubbish bins and finds the container of blood.

“Why?” he demands, sticking out his finger at me. “What are you up to?”

“I have low blood sugar,” I say, wrapping the butty back up and throwing it in the rubbish bin nearby. It’s not the one that the blood is in. “But look, I’ve lost my appetite.”

I nod at Pritchard and push past Snow to leave the kitchen, hoping that my lie will stick, but of course it doesn’t. He follows hot on my heels, and when we emerge into the early dusk, he rounds on me again.

“Low blood sugar? Really?” he growls, shoving his finger in my face. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”

I snap, turning quickly and shoving him against the brick wall. He grunts as his head makes contact, and I brace him there with my arm across his chest as I lean in. It’s close — too close, almost, and we haven’t gotten this physically aggressive with each other in forever, but needs must be met.

“Listen up, because I’ll only say this once,” I hiss. He grunts and squirms against me, trying to break free, but I press further into him. I’m glad I’m so pissed off, or else I’d probably have a humiliating problem with how close we are right now. “I don’t know why you’ve decided to crawl up my ass, but kindly cut it the fuck out,” I say, tightening the pressure.

“Something isn’t right about you,” he chokes out. “I saw—”

“You saw me talking to my mother,” I snarl. “I was in her tomb, you daft shit.”

Snow goes quiet for a moment, but his eyes are still narrowed.

“Stay away from Agatha,” he says instead, and I nearly laugh. He’s literally just swinging blindly, looking for reasons to be a shit to me.

“I don’t want your girlfriend, Snow,” I snap back. I shove him into the bricks one more time, then step back and adjust my jacket. “You don’t need to go all white knight on me. I have absolutely no interest in Wellbelove.”

 

***

 

“Wellbelove, what did you get for question four?”

Wellbelove looks up over the tower of books in front of her and squints.

“Honestly? I haven’t gotten there,” she sighs, putting her chin on her hand and blowing her fringe out of her eyes. “I spaced out after question one, and I’ve just been thinking of what to wear for Valentine’s day.”

I make a face and look back down at my textbook.

“Snow will inevitably be in his uniform, so why bother?” I ask, flipping a few pages to find the proper French conjugation I need. Beside me, Niall laughs.

“Maybe he’ll really clean up and put on some fresh trackies for you,” he mumbles, and an uncharacteristic snort escapes me.

“Which do you think are his formal trackies? The ones with the stripes, or the ones that stop above his ankles?” I ask. Niall pretends to contemplate it for a moment.

“Stripes, absolutely,” he says with confidence. “Like a trackie tuxedo, yeah?”

Across from us, Wellbelove is being an absolute champ about the fact that we’re roasting her boyfriend.

“Where’s Bunce, anyway?” I ask, changing the subject. Usually she’s part of this small homework party that takes place in the library several times a week. It used to be just Bunce and me for years, but somewhere along the line, Wellbelove and Niall decided to care about their school work. Not to sound narcissistic, but I think they’re more here for me — Wellbelove likes to chatter at me about music and clothes while we work, and Niall has been stuck to my side since Christmas. I think he’s worried the Mage and Snow are going to jump me at any moment.

I don’t point out that Wellbelove only joins us on the nights that Snow and the Mage are holed up in their little private chats.

Whatever the cause, Niall’s grades have gone up, at least. Which is good, because if he doesn’t get into Oxford with Dev and me, it would be a travesty.

Wellbelove sighs and for a moment there’s a flash of annoyance in her eyes, but then it clears. She reminds me of Daphne, sometimes, when she does things like that — the slight slip where you can see her actual emotions, before her good breeding kicks in and she’s back to being calm and pleasant.

“She and Simon are off exploring the standing stones,” she says with a tight smile. “Something about blades, and an ancient curse? To be honest, I don’t fully know. They don’t always tell me.”

Niall shifts and he and I exchange pointed glances. I’m fairly sure there’s nothing between Bunce and Snow — she’s far too intelligent — but apparently Wellbelove isn’t so sure.

“I’d count yourself lucky,” I tell her. “Snow has acted like an absolute idiot every time he’s gone to the stones and gotten high.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Niall murmurs beside me, and I laugh again. He looks up and flashes me a smile, then closes his book.

“Alright, I’m out. My eyes are about to bleed,” he says, standing up and shoving books into his bag. “You’re coming to my room later, right?” he asks, and I nod. I’ve been spending my evenings with Dev and Niall in order to limit my time in my room as much as possible. Not that Snow hangs out in there much anyway, but it’s all still a bit too sharp. I don’t dare to listen to music there, just in case the Mage comes back, and sitting there in silence is too much for me. The worst is when Snow _is_ there, and I have to alternate between feeling terrified, angry, horrified, and extremely sexually frustrated.

It’s horrible.

Niall walks away and Wellbelove watches him go, a strange expression on her face.

“What about Niall?” she asks, turning back to me suddenly. I raise an eyebrow, but don’t respond. Wellbelove knows me well enough by now that she doesn’t need me to extrapolate.

“As a boyfriend,” she explains, and my eyebrows shoot up higher. “What? He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“You have a boyfriend,” I point out, keeping my tone even. Niall? Really? Of our little band, Dev is the clear aesthetic choice, in my opinion, even if Niall is the better person.

“Not for me,” she says dismissively, shoving her books aside and leaning across the table. “For you. He’s cute. And he likes you.”

“Niall doesn’t like me,” I say, trying to keep my tone from revealing the immense panic flooding through me. “He’s my best friend.”

“Friendship is the best foundation for a relationship,” she says, and I want to smack the smug look off her face.

“Yes, but he is straight, and I am not interested,” I said curtly, pointedly looking at my book.

“I think you’d be cute together. And besides, I could see it. He may not be straight. Sometimes you never know until you try.”

“You’re dating the human equivalent of a dog, so please forgive me for not falling to my knees in gratitude for your relationship advice,” I snap. “And as I said, I’m not interested.”

“I just think you should at least _try_ ,” she says with a huff that she had to have picked up from Snow. “I mean, statistically, there’s no way you’re the only gay guy on campus.”

“Keep your voice down or I’m going to remove your tongue,” I hiss.

She blushes (prettily. Everything she does is pretty) and leans even closer.

“I just hate seeing you lonely. You’re so cool, Baz. Guys would be falling over themselves if they knew you were available. All the girls already are.”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Don’t you want a boyfriend?” she needles. “Don’t you want someone you can talk to? Someone who gets you?”

“Of course I want that,” I snarl, slamming my book closed. “But things aren’t as easy for me as they are for you. I don’t just get to _have_ that. There’s not a world where I get the boy that I want, so kindly, please, fuck off of this topic.”

She’s leaning across the table, and I closed the distance in order to tell her off, and we’re so close together that I could headbutt her if I wanted to. My breath is coming fast because I’m angry — I’m _so angry_ — and even though she’s trying her best, she’s absolutely making this worse, and now I’ve—

Realisation dawns in her eyes a split second before a wave of smoke hits me.

“Aggie?”

Wellbelove and I both turn to see Snow standing at the edge of our table, his eyes wide. I’d expect him to jump across the table and slit my throat with his sword, but instead he’s just standing there, holding his books, looking...hurt.

I push back from the table so quickly that my chair makes an awful screeching noise and goes flying, and snatch my things.

“Don’t worry Snow, I was just leaving,” I hiss. “She’s all yours.”

His eyes narrow and he looks between us, confused.

“Baz, are you—” he starts, and I hunch my shoulders, waiting for the accusation, but it doesn’t come.

“Are you alright—” his hand reaches out a moment before his brain catches up, and he snatches it back like I’m about to burn him. Wellbelove stares between the two of us, and I practically throw my jacket on in my desperation to get out of here.

“Have a nice night,” I snarl, ignoring Snow’s outstretched hand and Wellbelove’s wide brown eyes in favour of making a break for the door.

“Baz!” Snow calls, ignoring the quiet rules of the library, and my treacherous feet pause for a moment as I turn back to look at him. He stares after me, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a firm frown.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Not in an accusatory way. In a small, confused way.

“Wouldn’t we all like to know?” I respond, not caring that my answer is vague and makes no sense and probably makes me look like an absolute loon. Instead I just readjust my bag and leave.  


***

Across the room, Snow huffs and kicks at his comforter. He’s been making noises like this all night, squirming around and beating his pillow and making a general nuisance of himself, which is keeping me from sleeping. I thought about telling him to shut the fuck up, but I didn’t.

The room is boiling, though. This is one of those nights where if he got up and opened the window, I wouldn’t even mind, because I’m almost toasty under my own blankets. But it’s pouring rain outside, and we’d be soaked in a minute, so instead we’re just left to stew.

I think the heat is coming from him; I can feel it pulsing off of him in waves, and any minute I expect something to catch fire.

He sits up suddenly, and I squint through the dark to watch as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, wads it, and throws it into the corner before collapsing back on his bed with an indignant grunt.

My mouth goes dry.

Snow and I are always careful about never dressing around each other. None of the other boys have this weird standoff with their roommates, but we do. As a result, I’ve never seen Snow shirtless before, and—

Well.

It’s dark, and he has shit night vision and I’m a creature of the night, so I know he’s not going to catch me watching him. He never has before, at least, on any of the many nights that I’ve stayed up, unable to sleep. (Sometimes I wonder if I have insomnia because I’m a vampire, and my body is fighting me to get on a nocturnal cycle, or because I’m just depressed.)

But I’ve never been able to see this before. Simon Snow, sprawled out on his bed, his chest rising and falling with his breath, his skin on display. I swallow. It’s too much like that day in the room when he was high and we listened to Bowie. Except on that day there was a lightness between us. A friendly comradery.

Right now everything is heavy. Everything is so tense that I feel like the air is going to snap any second, I’m going to snap. I’m going to break, and reach out and touch him, just to see what he feels like, and —

He shifts onto his side, turning to face me, and his eyes are open. He’s staring at me, watching me, a frown on his face. I think about shutting my eyes and pretending to be asleep, but it wouldn’t matter; it’s too dark for him to see anyway. And who cares?

We stay like that, on our sides, facing each other as the air between us grows so thick I might choke, and then suddenly the room is lit up with the glow of lightning crackling in the distance.

Snow is lit up, washed in blue light, and I can see every detail; his horrible hair, his chest covered in freckles, the gold chain glinting around his neck. Does Snow wear a necklace? I’ve never seen that before. What could he possibly have around his neck, and where did he get it?

The room is dark for a moment before the lightning strikes again, flickering steadily.

Too late, I realise that I’m illuminated as well, and that Snow can see me staring at him.

He shifts, pulling one arm up to tuck under his head, never breaking eye contact with me, and the delicate chain is jostled loose and falls onto his sheets, illuminated by another burst of light.

It’s a cross.

I’m frozen in place, staring at it through the darkness. Snow isn’t religious. I know for a fact that he’s not religious, and if he’d worn this fucking cross for the whole time I’d known him, I would have seen it by now. Which means its new.

Which means he got it because of me. Because of what I am. Because he’s scared of me.

Thunder rolls above us and lightning brightens the room again and I want to vomit. Everything inside of me is boiling, screaming _monster monster monster_ over and over. Snow is scared of me.

My eyes move off of the cross and back up to his, blue, unblinking. Suddenly the blue glow of the crackling lightning seems too harsh. The beauty is gone. He’s all shadows, lying there half-swathed in them, looking like a bad omen.

“What are you, Baz?” he whispers, breaking the silence of the room.

I don’t answer, but he doesn’t seem to expect one. The thunder mumbles a reply.

“I just want to know,” he says, his voice small, and in this moment I hate him. I hate him for being broken and confused, and I hate him for being strong enough to break me. I hate the power he has. “I just want to know what you are.”

I still don’t answer. I just keep watching him, until finally he gives up, shakes his head, and shifts onto his back.

It’s another half hour before his breathing evens out, and I can tell he’s gone to sleep. I don’t follow, through. I can’t. My head is too loud.

_What are you?_

I wish I knew.

 

***

 

Simon Snow is scared of me.

That’s the only thing I can think about. While I’m in the shower. While I’m at breakfast. While I’m sitting in class and practising football and hanging with my friends. When I see his girlfriend wave at me across the Lawn (because she’s stopped approaching me as much, because Snow is apparently a toxic, jealous boyfriend).

Every moment of every day just reminds me that Snow, the boy who isn’t afraid of anything — the boy who thinks werewolves are _cool_ and who exploded a fucking chimera — is scared of me. Scared enough to wear a cross around his neck so I don’t kill him while he sleeps.

It makes me feel like shit.

I wish I could talk to my mum about it, but I don’t want to go back down to the catacombs because unlike Snow, I’m easily scared. I’m scared of him following me and cornering me and shoving his sword through my heart and ending this farce right away.

Sometimes I imagine what would happen if he did. Would I raise one blood covered hand to stroke his cheek, just before I died? Would I have it in me to kiss him with my last breath? Or would I die, silent and scared, just like I’ve lived?

None of these thoughts are good for me, but I can’t stop them. I can’t talk to Fiona, because she’d tell me to kill him. And I can’t talk to Niall, because he doesn’t know I’m in love with Simon bloody Snow.

Because I am, I think. I don’t fully know what love is, but I’m fairly sure this is it. Even while I’m avoiding him and scared of him and dreaming about him coming to end me, it never once occurs to me to fight back. It’s never been an option for me to try to kill him or hurt him first. Not just because I don’t want to be a killer — I’d kill the Mage, if given the opportunity, I think — but because the world would be worse off without him.

I genuinely think I’d rather die than have him gone. And I think that’s love.

Even now, sitting here and listening to _Friday I’m In Love_ , which is the most overrated and catchiest song of all time, and yet I’m thinking of him. So I’m fairly sure that’s the right word.

David Byrne was once asked why he didn’t write more love songs, and he said it was because he likes to write about the small things. “Paper, animals, a house…love is kind of big,” he’d said.

I think that’s how I know it’s love. Because this might be the biggest thing to ever happen to me.

I watch him sleeping at night (because I’m a vampire caricature) with his revolting mouth breathing, and I see him in the morning with his horrible hair, and I hear him fail over and over to make his magic work, and I watch as he twists himself in a circle about the imagined romance between Wellbelove and me, and I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it, because I know that if he let me kiss him, I’d do it in a heartbeat. And then he’d kill me, and everything would be right in the world.

Because I’m a monster.

Even if I’ve never bitten anyone, I’m still a monster. I told Snow that the Mage didn’t have to be a creature to be evil, and the same applies to me. I’ve always thought that it would be the vampire inside me that led to my downfall, but hysterically enough, it was that small part of me that’s still human.

It’s the human part of me that keeps trying to kill the Mage, and winds up hurting people in the process.

When it comes down to it, I don’t think I’m much better than he is.

No wonder the only things Snow is afraid of are the Mage and me.

That’s the bit that hit me the hardest about all this, I think. The fact that I’m now lumped in with _him_. The person I’ve been trying to stop. I don’t want to be like him. I never wanted to be like him. I just wanted to make things better, and in the process, I think I’ve probably made them worse.

Snow is a good enough person that even though he’s afraid of me, he hasn’t turned me in. He’s still — somehow, inexplicably — concerned about my welfare. And meanwhile I’m hiding a magical nuclear bomb in my wardrobe. Or at least I assume it’s something bad — I don’t even know what the bloody recorder that Fiona gave me _does_ , but I know it could hurt Snow. Him and anyone else around.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m being maudlin, and my thinking is a bit skewed right now, but it doesn’t change the truth of the matter.

I came out to the standing stones because I was curious, honestly, and not because I thought I could get high without having to look at Premal Bunce’s smug face. I don’t know exactly how this all works; my understanding is that whatever magic sent Snow reeling came in on the fog. At least, according to him. But it’s been foggy here for a bit now, and I don’t feel high. I just feel really...checked out. A bit sad. Kind of depressed.

Oh Crowley. Maybe I am high. I always get maudlin when high.

Wellbelove told me there’s a curse or something out here, but the land doesn’t _feel_ cursed. Everything is actually quite nice out here. It’s set off on a hill, removed from the Wavering Wood, and it’s quiet. So quiet. You can’t even see the school, and all you can hear is the occasional bird, swooping in around the five stones that are stacked up in a ring.

You can feel the magic though, thrumming up through the ground. Maybe this is why Snow has spent so much time here lately. It’s calming. Even if I’m depressed out of my mind, it feels more like a soft depression than it did when I first hiked up here after class, vibrating with anxiety and sadness and rage.

Things seem a bit clearer now.

I’ve been acting like a monster. But I don’t have to. I don’t have to be one. I’ll never be a saint — and I wouldn’t want to be, anyway — but maybe…

I need to get rid of that recorder.

It’s been gnawing at me, knowing it’s there. I know Fiona meant well when she gave it to me, but it makes me uncomfortable. Snow is showing an unheard of level of trust in me by not outing me. If he had, the Mage would have believed him. I’d have been pulled in for questioning at the very least. Snow clearly doesn’t trust me — the fact that he’s following me everywhere proves it — but why give him any more amunition than necessary?

The recorder has got to go. Maybe I’ll throw it in the moat. I’d set it on fire, but sometimes Dark Magic is actually fed by fire, and I wouldn’t want to end up unleashing whatever the hell is in that thing into the atmosphere. Maybe I’ll bring it up here and bury it, and let the power of the stones slowly dissolve it.

I lurch to my feet unsteadily — my legs have gone a bit numb from sitting here — and head back down the hill.

I scroll through my mobile and turn on the Buzzcocks, because I always listen to them when I’m high, and continue my trek back to the school. It’s almost dusk by the time I get there, which is good — Snow will likely be in the dining hall, along with everyone else. I’ll be able to get in and out of the room with the recorder with little suspicion.

The room is empty, like I expected, and I cross quickly to my wardrobe and pull out the small flannel wrapped bundle that I shoved back there in January. Unwrapping it carefully, I check to make sure it’s still there. I can feel the magic on it even stronger now — and it feels wrong. It feels dark, and heavy, the same way that some of the rooms in Malcolm’s house make me feel uncomfortable. Dark magic.

I rewrap it and consider shoving it in my pocket, but it’s just a touch too big, so I tuck it under my arm and put everything back in the wardrobe, then turn to leave.

“What is that?”

I almost drop the recorder in surprise. Simon fucking Snow managed to sneak up on me once again, because I had my headphones in. I surreptitiously pause my music, then stand and turn to face him.

“Laundry,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. I feel a little detached, like I’m not fully here. It’s probably the THC fog.

“You never wear plaid,” he says, staring at the flannel. I curse inwardly. The first time in his entire life that Snow decides to be observant, and it’s the worst possible timing for me. Of course.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” I snap, shifting from side to side. Snow eyes me.

“Why are your eyes red?”

“Seriously, move.”

He comes closer.

“Have you been crying?”

“Move or I’m going to move you myself.”

“What’s under your arm?”

“Could you once,” I snarl, “just once, try not to be a massive pain in my ass? And just get the fuck out of the way so I can get out of the room?”

Snow stares at me and crosses his arms.

“I want to know what you’re doing. You’ve been skulking around, and you weren’t at dinner. You say you’re not a vampire—” I wince, I can’t help myself — “but you’re absolutely up to _something_. I’m not going to let you hurt the Mage again.”

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” I snap back, feeling immensely tired. “I’m just trying to get out of my room. There’s no plot, Snow. I just want to do my laundry and go get food.”

Snow’s frown lowers a bit, but he doesn’t move.

“Baz, are you okay? Is something going on? I can help you, you know, if there’s—”

It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“Aleister fucking Crowley,” I snap, cutting him off before he and his bleeding heart can inflict more damage on my dangerously sensitive emotions. I barrel forward and shoulder him out of the way, far harder than I intend to, and he stumbles into the side of his desk, hitting his hip sharply as I yank open the door and charge out.

“Baz!” he shouts behind me, grabbing the door before I can shut it on him, and follows me onto the landing.

“Get the fuck out of my way and leave me alone,” I snarl.

“What do you have under your arm?” he repeats. “Why are you being so weird around Aggie? She tells me you two are friends, and then I see you two in the library, and then you _yell_ at her, and—”

“I said leave me alone,” I shout, whirling on him. “Can you get that through your thick skull of yours?” I shove at one of his shoulders and he’s forced to take a step back. “I’m not up to anything. I’m not plotting anything. I don’t want anything except for you,” I shove him again, “and your fucking Mage,” another shove, “to leave me be, and let me live my fucking life.”

“You’re the one who won’t leave him alone!” he shouts, squaring his shoulders and pushing me back. “You keep attacking him!”

“And I give up!” I shout back. “You win, Snow. He wins. I give up.”

I’m almost whispering now, the fight gone out of me.

“You win,” I repeat, and turn to walk down the stairs, but Snow won’t let me be. He grabs at my arm, the one holding the recorder, and I yank it out of his grip quickly, not watching my strength, and Snow loses his balance.

I watch in horror as Snow — his hand grasped around one edge of the flannel — takes a step backwards and begins to fall down the stairs. The recorder slips from under my arm and bounces off the stone floor and follows him, clacking off the steps.

I pull my wand before my brain catches up, my voice shaking as I shout, **_“silencio, por favor!”_** It’s a bad choice of spell, because it only works if the people you’re casting it on agree to be quiet, but it was the first thing to pop into my head as I clatter down the stairs behind Snow. He’s laying in a crumpled heap at the bottom, his nose bleeding and cradling his arm. Beside him, the recorder thrums noisily, pulling its tape through the mechanism. I can feel the magic in the air, and I have no idea what is supposed to happen, but I know I have to turn off that recorder as soon as I can.

I scoop it up and press the red button in the middle, and the recording cuts off with a clang, and the tension in my chest releases. I hit the eject button, and as soon as the cassette pops up I practically tear it from the device, spools of black tape screeching along behind it, and then I brace it between both of my hands and snap it in half, just to be safe.

“What the fuck was that?” Snow asks, staring, his blue eyes wide. I realise that I’m panting and I shake my head.

“Nothing,” I say. “Absolutely nothing. Now. If you’ll excuse me.”

I shove the remnants of the cassette tape into my pocket and step over Snow’s body on my way to the door. There’s a twinge in my gut about leaving him here, hurt, but I push it down. There’s no room for anything right now, no emotions. I just need to bury this fucking recorder, and never look back.

 

***

 

“Did you really push the Chosen One down the stairs?” Dev whispers, sliding into the chair next to me in the dining hall. I close my eyes and sigh. I’ve already received this exact text from both Malcolm and Fiona.

“Yes,” I say, because it’s easier.

“Nice,” Dev replies, taking a bite of his toast, and leaves it at that.

Everyone is aware of some version of what happened, though as far as I can tell, no one heard it from Snow or I, since it seems to be highly unfactual. Even the Mage heard a version of it, and I got hauled into his office for a lecture about fighting.

“One more incident like this, Basilton, and I will have to write home to your father,” he’d said. I’d just nodded, deliberately not looking at Snow, who had been silent during this entire exchange.

“I understand,” I replied. “He’ll be looking forward to it. He’s actually been meaning to talk to you about the books of mine you confiscated.”

“Basilton,” the Mage said, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms over his chest. It’s a pose I’ve seen Snow settle into countless times, and on him, with his broad shoulders and large arms, he looks imposing. The Mage just looks like a schoolmarm. “Basilton, we’ve been over this. Those books belong to the library.”

“Those books were purchased for personal use by my mother,” I countered. “And my Father and aunt will be by at the end of term to collect them, as well as the records and devices that you confiscated.”

“Oh, no,” the Mage said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid not. For safety reasons, confiscated items are not returned. I’m sorry Basilton. But you knew the rules and willingly broke them.”

“Sir—” Snow started, but the Mage didn’t even look at him.

“This has nothing to do with why you are here today, however,” the Mage said, steamrolling over Snow.

“Sir,” Snow tried again, “what if Baz promises to not fight for the rest of term? What if — if he doesn’t do anything, perhaps you could—”

“Simon, wait outside, would you?” the Mage said, cutting him off with a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. I stared at Snow, surprised that he had tried to defend me (though I suppose he does like taking advantage of my music as well) and waiting for him to fight back. He’d just been dismissed like a child. Like a dog. But he just pushed back his chair and left.

“Now. Basilton,” the Mage said, settling his gaze on me as I choked down the desperate urge to bite him. “I’ve been extremely tolerant of your antics. But you are older now, and almost an adult, and I feel that maybe you need to be made aware of real world repercussions for your actions. If something does not change — truly change — you must know that expulsion is a possibility.”

I clenched my fists together and nodded. I’d love to see him expel me. We both know he’s full of shit. This is just an attempt to get me in line. He can grab as much power as he wants, but if he expels me — me, a Pitch — that’s the quickest way to ensure that the Old Families will never work with him. Because in this little world he’s set up, where SImon is his successor, it’s necessary to keep me close. I’m the one who’ll be leading the Old Families one day, after all.

He also knows that I’d receive a very different, far more dangerous education if I was sent home to learn from the books in the Pitch family library.

When I left the office, Snow was still there, waiting like a lap dog. He blinked at me several times — long, slow, confused — before going back into the Mage’s office without a word.

He’s been so frustratingly _quiet_ about this all. After months of following me around and accusing me and never shutting up, it’s like we’re back in first year and I have a mute roommate again. I keep waiting for him to ask me what the recorder was, but he hasn’t. And since the day in the Mage’s office, he’s been completely silent.

I drink my tea and mull over this, trying to wrap my head around what he could possibly be up to. I smell him when he enters the dining hall and sits down at his conspicuously empty table — no idea where his harem is, then — and he doesn’t even look up at me as I watch him slather his scones with butter and set about destroying his breakfast.

He really is a disgusting creature. Even if I love him, I can admit that he’s kind of gross.

I wish he’d just attack, honestly. I wish he’d just jump me and kill me and stop being so _nice_ and unpredictable about all of this, because it’s not helping me deal with these highly unwanted emotions, and one day I’m going end up snapping and —

“Hello, Basil.”

I blink away from Snow and turn my head to see Penelope Bunce sitting at my table, staring at me.

“Bunce,” I say, nodding, as Wellbelove and Niall take the seats across from me. Dev and I look at each other, but he’s as lost as I am. I’ve no idea why two thirds of the Scooby gang have migrated over here, and neither does Snow, judging by his expression. “What are you—”

“We’ve left something in your room for you,” Bunce says, cutting me off. “Don’t thank me. It was Agatha’s idea, and Niall helped us out. I disapproved of all of it.”

“What are you—”

“You need to get past this,” Bunce says, silencing me again. She’s actually, properly scary when given the chance, I’m realising.

“Get past what?”

“Your ridiculous grudge against the Mage,” she responds, and Wellbelove hums quietly and pours herself a cup of tea. “This has gone on long enough, and one day you’re going to seriously hurt someone in your vendetta, or hurt yourself. You realise you can’t just kill the Mage, right?”

“Bunce, I’m not sure—”

“Save it, Basilton, you’re not as good of a liar as you think you are.”

That shuts me up.

“I don’t know what that little stunt on the stairs was, but I know it wasn’t good, whatever you had planned,” she says, not blinking. “Do you think this is the right way to go about things? Do you think this is how your mother would have done things?”

It feels like I’ve been hit in the gut, and Bunce nods. She knows she’s landed a direct hit.

“If you want to fight the Mage and die on whatever ideological hill you want to die on, that’s fine. But you do it by growing up and actually doing something and trying to make a change. You won’t change anything by taking things out on him and Simon. That’s not what your mother would do.”

Wellbelove passes her a scone, and Bunce bites into it, chews, and then dusts off her skirt.

“You’re smarter than this, and better than this. Simon doesn’t have to be your enemy. Just think it over.”

She stands up and looks at Wellbelove, who takes another long, slow sip of her tea.

“What did you—” I start, almost completely

“Just look in your room.”

She leaves the table and Wellbelove follows a moment later, pausing only to pat me on the shoulder like a little brother, and Dev and I turn in unison to stare at Niall, who is trying very hard to look disinterested.

“What the fuck was that about?” Dev asks.

“This was all Agatha,” Niall says, shrugging.

“ _What_ was?” I snap. Niall looks around the room then lowers his voice. “We got your books and records back for you.”

“What?” I exclaim, far louder than I mean to. Apparently that’s all I’m capable of saying this morning. I sound like an idiot. Niall shushes me.

“Snow told Wellbelove about the Mage taking your books and records, and apparently he has his wards down for Bunce, since she and Snow come and go. She offered to get us in.”

“Bunce is a tight-ass rule follower,” I argue, even though I know she’s not, not really. Of the trio, she’s the one most likely to do something illegal, if she thinks there’s a good reason for it.

“She said she wanted to look for something while we were there,” Niall says with a shrug. “But, listen. We got all the records and everything, and most of the books, but there may be a few missing. There was one on his desk, but we didn’t take it because it would be too conspicuous.”

“Won’t he notice them missing anyway? The first thing he’ll do is come for my head,” I respond, trying to choke down the immense, unnameable feelings that are threatening to overtake me.

“We put in fakes. I mean, if he goes through the box, he might be able to tell. But Bunce knew this copy spell, and turned a bunch of old file folders into fake record covers and stuff, so…” Niall trails off and shrugs again. “Happy late birthday.”

There are a thousand questions eating at me, but chief amongst them is: why? Wellbelove I can semi-understand, as she’s always been nice to me, and seems to have adopted the position of being affectionately concerned about me. Niall I get as well. But why Bunce? She’s Snow’s second-in-command, and has never struck me as a particularly selfless person.

Was it a peace offering? It doesn’t sound like it was sanctioned by Snow, but if anyone could arm-wrestle him into submission, it would be Bunce. And she’d said she wanted me to get past this…

I won’t. A grudge is a grudge, and I’m never going to put aside my differences with the Mage. But she is right. Trying to kill him isn’t the way to do it — especially when Snow keeps getting caught in the crossfires. The last thing I want to do is hurt him even more.

My tea is going in and out of focus and I realise that there’s small dots of moisture swimming at the corner of my eyes. I shake my head, clear my throat, and nod.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back from the table and crossing the hall to Snow’s table. He looks up at me with a frown, and I push back my instinct to say something shitty to him.

“Bunce,” I say, to get her attention, and she looks up from her book. “Thank you. You too, Ags.”

Bunce blinks, but Wellbelove looks like she’s positively blooming in response to me calling her by a nickname. She’s been bugging me to do it for months, but I’ve refused, from a purely aesthetic standpoint.

“And, Snow…” I trail off, and he stops chewing, staring at me. “Thank you for what you said the other day in the Mage’s office.” Crowley, saying something kind to him is almost physically painful. This is why we could never work out, even if he was straight; I’d have a seizure every time I had to compliment him. “It was decent of you.”

Snow looks utterly unprepared to handle this, and I kind of feel the same way, so I give them another nod and then leave the room slowly. I want to run all the way back to Mummers, but I don’t want to appear over eager, so I wait until I get inside the dorm to dash up the stairs.

I can’t wait to see my records again.

 

*******

 

“It’s been so long that I forgot I hated your music taste,” Dev says, scrunching up his nose. Niall makes an offended noise, and I turn up the music louder. Pavement. _Cut Your Hair_. Sometimes Fiona plays it for me as a passive aggressive way of telling me to get a haircut. I never listen.

We’ve locked the door, cast three sound-dampening spells around the room, and set up an alert that will tell us if the Mage walks by Dev and Niall’s room, in order to give us as much advance warning as possible.

From his perch on the floor, Niall nods along to the music and his eyes drift closed. He’s still tired a lot — more than he used to be — but the difference between how he looks now and how he looked this time last year is staggering. In retrospect, I’ve no idea how we didn’t notice anything was wrong.

Dev, who is lounging on Snow’s bed in a deliberate act of rebellion, doesn’t look as comfortable. Despite his stretched out position, he keeps eyeing the door as if he’s ready to jump up at any minute.

“Calm down, Snow won’t be back for ages,” I drawl, digging a bag of crisps out from under my bed. We’re meant to be studying for finals, but we gave up pretending to try ages ago.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s the end of the term,” I answer. “Snow and Bunce went off to the standing stones earlier today, and they haven’t had their yearly adventure yet, so I assume it’s happening now. Snow is probably doing battle with an ogre or destroying a historical site as we speak. It’s not dark yet, so we probably have a few more hours before he shows up covered in blood and soot.”

“They do seem to have a yearly hijinx, don’t they?” Dev muses, relaxing a bit. “Don’t you usually get dragged into those things?”

“I decided to write myself out of the narrative this year,” I respond, which causes Niall to snort as he reaches up for the Walkers. I hold them out of his reach, just to be a dick.

“How does someone as stupid as Snow routinely manage to get into and out of these situations?” Dev asks, propping his arms under his head. “I mean, really. Bunce makes up about 80 per cent of that team, but still. He manages shit on his own. How does he manage to blunder through life successfully?”

“Charisma and natural good looks,” I deadpan, and Niall snorts again. But Dev raises his head off the bed to stare at me.

“Really? Snow? You think _he’s_ fit?”

Something draws tight in my belly, and I keep my tone impassive.

“Objectively, sure.”

Dev scrunches his nose up and shakes his head.

“Really? His nose is big and his teeth are all weird and he’s like, this clobbering beast.”

“You’ve put some thought into this,” Niall says, and I lean down to flick him on the ear as Dev shakes his head vigorously.

“No, actually, I’ve never thought of it till now. I don’t really notice if men are fit. I’m surprised you do.”

“Baz notices everything,” Niall says. “He’s observant as fuck.”

I take a breath. There’s an opening here. A clear opening. One which would be a demarcation line in my friendship. But there’s no… Merlin, what’s the point? I’m hiding so much anyway.

“Well, there’s that,” I say slowly, putting a crisp in my mouth to bide time. “But it’s also because I’m gay.”

There’s a beat. A short one — at least, I think it’s short, but to me it feels like ten million years — before Dev nods and goes, “Oh, yeah, well, that’s a good point,” and flops back on Snow’s bed, and Niall reaches up for another crisp, and then we steer the conversation onto which football club Dev should support, as he has formally decided to abandon Man U.

Not for the first time, I’m reminded that my life is made so much better by trusting my friends.

By the time the sun sets, Dev and Niall have gone and I’m alone, just laying in my bed and listening to music and thinking about Snow. Like a bad nightmare, the second my mind drifts to soft curls and freckled hands, I hear him in the hallway, pounding on the door to come in. I lift the locking spell lazily and open the door, just to have the satisfaction of watching him nearly fall on his face when it gives way.

He’s definitely been on an adventure, because he’s covered in mud, but for once it seems like he came out unscathed. I’m not hit with the smell of blood when he enters the room, and it’s a blessing. I can barely hold myself together when he’s around as it is.

He mumbles something as he closes the door, then pauses.

“You have music on,” he says, because he always feels the need to point out the obvious. I blink at him, and he stares back. This is the moment, I suppose, where we find out just how much Snow hates me. He doesn’t like The Vandals, and _Lady Killer_ is currently playing, which he thinks is crass.

“Good,” he says, heading to the toilet. “It’s weird without it.”

His words settle over me like a warm weight and I try to breathe. I sit up and dig through my abandoned school books and pull out my notes so that I can continue studying, even though I’m actually rather well prepared for the upcoming exams. It’s amazing how much free time you have when you aren’t plotting things.

Snow emerges a few moments later, slightly cleaned up, and pulls his school bag onto his shoulder. My eyebrow lifts.

“Are you seriously going to study? Didn’t you just kill a gorgon or something?”

“Ogre,” Snow says with a sigh, “but the stones actually fell on him, so I didn’t do much. Penny wants to study.”

I can’t believe that I was actually right about both the ogre and the destruction.

“Here,” I say, holding out my French notebook. “She missed class today.”

Snow stares at it like it’s a bomb.

“Don’t you need it?”

“No. I’m fluent.”

Snow huffs and rolls his eyes, and his entire demeanour relaxes.

“Knowing the words to _Psycho Killer_ doesn’t count,” he retorts, and I have to bite back a grin at the idea of Snow willing thinking about The Talking Heads. It thrills me more than I care to admit.

I pause for a moment, mentally calculating how competent Snow is at French, and then I decide to risk it, because honestly? He can barely speak English.

“Tu es une belle catastrophe,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Vous êtes un cauchemar absolu.”

Snow furrows his brow at me, and it’s clear he has no idea what I’m saying.

“Je déteste que je t'aime,” I say, and he huffs.

“Yeah, yeah, okay asshole, I get it,” he growls, readjusting his bag and stepping toward me to take the French notebook. “I’ll give Penny the notes.”

He turns then and heads to the door, but pauses just before leaving, turning back to look at me.

“Hey, Baz?” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Sorry that…” he pauses, stumbles over his words, then restarts. “Sorry I told people you were a vampire.”

I look up, surprised, and our eyes meet. Is he apologising for thinking I’m a vampire, or just for telling people about it? It’s not clear, but the way he’s looking at me and the charged tension that’s suddenly filling the room makes me think its the latter. I can’t tell if I’m imagining or over analysing the expression on his face, but if feels like some kind of unspoken acknowledgement of _something_ , and I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I don’t want to fuck it up — whatever _it_ is, if _it_ even is something.

“It’s fine,” I say finally, even though it’s not. It’s not at all. “I’ve been called worse.”

He exhales a short burst of air in relieved kind of laugh and nods.

“Yeah, probably by me,” he says, and I nod. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t; he just stands there, clearly waiting for something.

“This is where you could apologise for pushing me down the stairs,” he says finally, and I raise an eyebrow.

“But I didn’t.”

“Yes you did!” he exclaims, suddenly angry. “You did! At least apologise!”

“I’m sorry you fell down the stairs after attacking me,” I say, my voice flat, and Snow grows and spins.

“Crowley you’re such a prick,” he mumbles, but he barely sounds angry as he yanks open the door and busts through it, slamming it behind him. I watch him go with a small smile. Something about that was decidedly friendly. Neutral. _Good_.

I meant what I said. I hate that I love him. It’s wildly, massively inconvenient. And m only goal for this summer is to figure out how to stop.

Merlin, I hope I succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **French Translation:**
> 
> Tu es une belle catastrophe = You are a beautiful disaster 
> 
> Vous êtes un cauchemar absolu = You are an absolute nightmare
> 
> Je déteste que je t'aime = I hate that I love you
> 
> **Songs Mentioned:**
> 
> Drain The Blood - The Distillers
> 
> Beat Your Heart Out - The Distillers
> 
> Unloveable - The Smiths
> 
> Can't Hardly Wait - The Replacements
> 
> Friday I'm In Love - The Cure
> 
> Cut Your Hair - Pavement
> 
> Lady Killer - The Vandals


	9. TEENAGE KICKS | PART 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR SIX, PART 1: Wanking, skanking, probing gay questions and rippling sexual tension. Washing your lover’s hair is the most intimate gift of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Mordelia's  **[Tired Punks and Little Puffs](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/6fsCcfJXqtT02LrngCHvS1?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) ** playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=HBMHv1B5RzaMa-nznCaYWg) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter Title:[Teenage Kicks -- The Undertones](https://open.spotify.com/track/7ATyLePQnHxFk5kzxWCcsh?si=QjfOdJcWSQygtk869PqobA)**
> 
>  
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello my dears! We are off the road here, we are speeding right ahead into my alternate universe wherein I am going to crowd every headcanon and Fix It! quirk I can. Thank you so much for your kind words and comments and support, I love you all! Always feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com). xx- Ban

I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of the Buzzcocks.

Fucking Fiona. Would it have killed her to let me sleep in even a little?

I roll out of bed and throw a jumper on over my sleep shirt and stumble out of my room. It’s just off of the kitchen, which I’ve never minded, since Fiona never uses it, but sometimes she gets in a mood to cook and things get annoying as shit.

 _Why Can’t I Touch It?_ is blaring, and Fiona is sitting at the table near the window, nursing a cup of coffee. There’s bacon on the stove, and I steal a piece before flipping on the kettle.

“Morning,” she says, and I grunt at her. The music is deafening, and my vampire hearing makes it even louder.

“Think you could turn it down a bit?” I ask, sniffing at the coffee that’s still in the pot. I always do this; I make myself think I’m going to like the coffee because it smells good, and then I pour a cup and it tastes like sludge.

“I could have asked you the same thing last night,” Fiona says, and I freeze. My blood goes cold. She’s not — she is. She reaches down and changes the song on her mobile and _Orgasm Addict_ starts playing.

“Interesting soundtrack selection,” Fiona says mildly. “The Cure, really? Does Robert Smith’s ‘I’ve-just-been-electrocuted’ look really get you going? It’s not very loud, though. Not an effective noise muffler. I thought I’d play you an alternative option.”

_Well, you tried it just for once found it all right for kicks_

_But now you found out that it's a habit that sticks_

_And you're an orgasm addict, you're an orgasm addict_

I want to be burnt alive, right now. Fiona’s room is on the complete other side of the flat, and it was late, and I had my music on, so I had just assumed that there was no chance in hell she could hear me. My cheeks flame red, because I drank last night and I’m able to fucking blush.

“It’s almost my birthday,” I snap, turning to busy myself with the kettle and tea bag. “You can’t humiliate me like this.”

“Funny you say that, because I didn’t buy you a present this year, and instead decided to give you the gift of not mentioning this until today,” Fiona responds in a dry voice before taking a sip of her coffee.

My hand clenches so violently that I break Fiona’s old Watford mug between my fist.

All summer.

She’s been aware all summer.

My goal to forget about my pathetic, embarrassing, fruitless infatuation with Simon Snow this summer failed, miserably. I tried; Merlin, did I try. Nothing worked. Trying to find a boyfriend, trying to remember why I hate him, trying to excise all feelings — nothing. Not even my attempts to wank my feelings away worked. Which, logically, I knew would fail, but. I’m sixteen and in despair. It seemed worth a try.

And now I find out that Fiona has been aware of these… efforts. All summer.

“Oh don’t look like that,” Fiona snaps, pulling out the chair next to her. “Come on, sit down. Let’s have a talk.”

“No,” I say in a warning tone, shaking my head. There is no force on Earth that is going to get me into that chair.

“C’mon Baz, it’ll be over quick and painless. I’d be a shit guardian if I didn’t,” she says, an evil and depraved glint in her eye.

“You already are a shit guardian,” I snap back, quickly pouring water into a new mug and sweetening it. The sooner I make my tea the sooner I can escape this.

“Now, Basil. When a boy loves another boy very much, he may start to notice some _signs_ —”

“I hope you die in a fire,” I snarl, grabbing the mug and rocketing out of the kitchen and back into my room, slamming the door extra loud for good measure.

_He's got the energy, he will remain_

_He's an orgasm addict, he's an orgasm addict_

It takes me three times as long as usual to pack to go back to school, just to spite Fiona. She prefers to get an early start to the day when we head back — and I do as well, truthfully, because I enjoy the back to school picnic. But the idea of being trapped with Fiona in the car right now fills me with dread, so I drag out my preparations as long as possible.

I’m leaving my records and record player behind this year. It kills me to do it, but I can’t bear the thought of losing them again. Instead I just pack my bluetooth speaker and my old iPod, along with my mobile. I do decide to take my mother’s books, but I knicked the dust covers from some of Fiona’s books to put on them, so now they are safely disguised as trashy werewolf romance novels.

When I finally emerge, Fiona, to my intense annoyance, barely notices that I took three and a half hours to pack, and instead gestures at something on the table.

“Malcolm told me to send your birthday present with you, but I thought you might want to open it early,” she says, not looking up from her book. I can’t tell if it’s one of the aforementioned werewolf romances.  “It’s technically from all your sisters, but Mordelia picked it out.”

“Please tell me I’m not getting a _Little Mermaid_ t-shirt,” I say, blanching. Mordi is going through an Ariel phase, and I’m about at wits end with it having to play act the movie with her, because she keeps making me be Sebastian. You’d think I could rank high enough to be Eric, but no. That honour goes to a stuffed cat.

“Close, but no,” Fiona says, tapping the table. “Just open it.”

I eye the bulky package suspiciously as I pull back the tissue wrapped layers, but nothing explodes or sings at me. When I see what’s laying before me, I inhale sharply and tentatively touch the smooth, black leather of the jacket.

“Mordelia was very determined that you needed one,” Fiona says, finally looking up and grinning. “I helped her pick it out.”

I hold it up and carefully inspect it. It looks a bit big, so there’s room to grow into it, and the leather is supple yet firm as I pull it on over my shirt and stretch my arms. It feels amazing.

“Malcolm was actually okay with this?” I ask in amazement, rolling my shoulders. The leather feels like butter and moves like a second skin. This is no charity shop jacket — Malcolm probably had it custom made in Italy or some posh sweatshop staffed with blind nuns — but I don’t care. This isn’t the kind of gift I would ever have expected to receive from my father. He’s the type to give whisky glasses or a nice suit. Not a leather jacket. Not a _motorcycle_ jacket.

It is utterly, unabashedly punk.

“He was particularly pleased with your grades last term,” Fiona says, smiling at me. “We both think your mum would be blisteringly proud of you, kid.”

Looking down at the floor, I try to ignore the lump building in my throat.

“Did he… did he buy it before or after I…”

I trail off, but Fiona doesn’t need me to finish. She knows what I’m talking about; the semi-disastrous, wildly confusing day a month and a half ago wherein I came out to Malcolm, and he largely acted like he hadn’t heard me. There were no tears or yelling or heated declarations for me to get out of his house; instead he just kind of froze up, then kept buttering his scone, nodded his head, and asked me to pass the coffee.

Later, Daphne had pulled me aside and given me a hug, but nothing from Malcolm. I’ve been trying to figure out what it means. Is he just wildly alright with it? Or is he angry and plotting to disinherit me? Or, worse, was his plan to just… freeze me out and never acknowledge it?

“After,” Fiona says decisively. “And as a personal recommendation, I think you’ve a pin somewhere that would go wonderful with that black sheen. It would also wildly piss Malcolm off if you poked a hole in that Italian leather.”

I fix her with a look. I’ve thought about it. I’ve cleared the hurdle of my parents and friends — what’s to stop me from coming out fully? No one at Watford would dare give me shit about it, and if I’m ever to get over Snow, getting a boyfriend would be wildly helpful, but that’s not exactly going to happen if I’m in the closet. Not that I exactly can imagine being nice or close enough to _date_ someone, but. Baby steps.

“I’m not coming out just to piss off my father,” I tell Fiona. “I’m not that cliché.”

“You should consider it, though,” Fiona says, ignoring my argument. “If you want to.”

“I do,” I say quickly, then shove my hands in the pockets of the jacket. “I do want to. I have considered it. Do you think it’s… well, necessary? It’s a bit flashy and dramatic, coming out, isn’t it? Better to be quiet about these things.”

“Bullshit,” Fiona says, shaking her head. “That’s Malcolm speaking. That’s Old Family rhetoric if I’ve ever heard it. You’re the most dramatic twat I’ve ever met. Why be subtle now?”

“It would get back to the Coven immediately.”

Fiona fixes me with a hard glare.

“I think there are more pressing issues in the World of Mages right now than a sixteen-year old’s sexuality. You’re not that important.”

She has a point. Damn her.

“Let’s get the car loaded, shall we?” I say, hoping to effectively end this discussion, and retreat back to my room to grab my bags. I linger by my bedside table far longer than I plan to, though, and finally reach inside and pull out the small ring box where I’d put Fiona’s ridiculous rainbow pin that she gave me for Christmas two years ago.

Taking a deep breath I pin it to my jacket, wincing slightly at the hole in the leather, and then pick up my bookbag.

 

***

 

“Basilton! Over here!”

I pause on my way to my usual table and look around the library, trying to find who just called my name. My eye lands on a girl with bright pink and silver hair, holding court at a table with a black girl I don’t know, Phillipa Stainton, and Penelope Bunce.

For a moment I consider pretending that I didn’t hear anything, but a voice I recognise cuts through the library.

“Pitch, come here.”

I narrow my eyes at Penelope Bunce — now sporting green hair — and head unwillingly toward the table full of women.

“How can I help you?”

I really don’t want to be here. I want to get started on my Magick Words assignment and not stand around talking to people I don’t know. Or rather, pixies. I’m vaguely aware of Trixie — as she’s the only other creature who’s a student here — but we’ve never spoken, specifically for that reason.

“Sit,” Trixie commands, and I pull out a chair with a heavy sigh and drop my bag to the floor next to me. I glance at Bunce for some kind of indication as to what this is about, but she’s back to her books, ignoring me. She’s also sitting a fair distance from Trixie, and I’m suddenly reminded that they’re roommates. I guess they don’t get on.

“I just want to say that what you did was incredibly brave,” Trixie starts, leaning across the table and touching my hand. I try to pull back, but she has it in a grip. I had no idea pixies were this fucking strong.

“And what was that?” I ask, tugging at my hand. I could rip it out of her grip, but I don’t like to use my vampire strength.

“Coming out,” she responds, tilting her head to the side and smiling in a way that looks manic. I sigh heavily. I should have expected this.

Since being back at school for the past month, it seems that every person I’ve ever met — and some I haven’t — have had something to say about my grand gay reveal. I hadn’t thought it would be this interesting, and it’s not like I hired a skywriter. I just showed up with a fucking pin.

Wellbelove was the first to notice. She saw the pin and gave me a huge hug, while Snow glowered at us. Bunce just raised her eyebrows, looked between the pin and Wellbelove and went, “interesting.”

Niall grinned and clapped me on the back, while Dev said, “oh, shit.” Marcus’s eyes went huge, and he asked if Malcolm knew. In a disturbing display of humanity, Miss Possibelf gave me a little smile, and even Professor Hollow stopped me in the hallway to offer an awkwardly genuine and entirely unwanted high five.

The only person who hasn’t mentioned it in some way is Snow. And because he’s so fucking stupid, I can’t tell if it’s because he hasn’t realised, or because he just doesn’t care.

Across from me, the pixie is waiting for a reply, so I sigh.

“Lovely, thank you,” I answer, going to stand up, but she stops me again.

“I just wanted you to know that you’re not the only one,” she says, and I pause, raising one eyebrow. “I’m bisexual, and Keris here—” she elbows the black girl next to her, who looks painfully uncomfortable and sends me an apologetic smile, “is lesbian. And there’s two eighth year boys as well. I’m sure there’s more though, but we’re the only ones to have been open about it.”

“Oh,” I say, because I really don’t know what else to respond. I knew, statistically, I wasn’t alone. But I hadn’t really given much thought to who else might be like me.

“Anyway, we all get together sometimes,” Trixie continues. “Not in like, a club way, more of a casual hang out way. There’s usually booze. You should come! We’ve got a small party planned for Halloween.”

Bunce is watching me, eyes wide, like she’s just lucked on to the best TV show she’s ever seen, and I nod.

“Ah,” I say, trying to find a way to explain to the manic pixie across from me that I do not know her or her friends, and our collective appreciation of the same sex is not exactly a compelling reason for me to try to make more friends. I’ve just come out. I’m not overly interested in joining some kind of gay pride maffia. “Maybe.”

Bunce snorts and looks back down at her book, and Trixie glares at her.

“Thank you,” I add, collecting my bag and standing up quickly, before the pixie can lock onto me again. “Bunce,” I nod, then practically flee to my own table.

When I sit down and begin to read, I notice I have pixie dust on my hand. If there was any doubt in my mind before, there’s none now. I absolutely will not be going to that Halloween party.

An hour later, I’m preparing to leave when Keris approaches my table. Trixie is loitering by the door, talking to Philippa, and Keris looks over her shoulder before smiling at me awkwardly. She looks hesitant, her finger scraping at the edge of the table, and she doesn’t fully look at me.

“Yes?” I ask, more sharply than I mean to, and she smiles again and looks away.

“I just wanted to say…” she trails off, then takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Listen, Trixie can be a lot. She means well, but she comes on strong.”

“You don’t say,” I drawl, thinking of the bruises she’s sure to have left on my hand.

“But, I just want to say, if you need anything or ever want to talk, feel free to reach out to me any time. I’ve been there, I get it,” she says with a small shrug. “And I’m not very splashy about it.”

“Oh,” I respond. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she responds, then finally looks at me. “I get that there are things you might not feel comfortable talking to your friends about — especially friends of the same sex. So… consider me a neutral party, if you ever need anything. Anyway.” She clears her throat and straightens up. “See you around, Basil.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “See you.”

 

***

 

“And I explained to him probably three times what to do, but he still managed to forget,” Wellbelove whines, huffing out a large exhale of air. It’s getting cold enough that tiny, almost invisible tendrils of steam coming out of her mouth. “He’s not stupid, you know he’s not, so it feels like he just doesn’t care, you know?”

I look up from my book and survey Wellbelove. She’s stretched out on the grass at my feet, one hand splayed out on top of my physics textbook, the other one carefully applying black varnish. Her stockinged legs swing behind her, and I have no idea how she isn’t fucking freezing. I’ve a large jumper and a scarf on under my leather jacket, and I may shiver to death.

The only reason we’re outside right now is because there’s nowhere inside to go. Snow blew something up in class today, and he’s been so stressed about it that he’s been in our room with Bunce, pouting and stinking up the place. The library has been given over to the juvenile school Halloween party, and Dev is Skyping his French girlfriend in his room, and neither Niall or I want to be there.

While I had no luck getting over my pathetic crush this summer, Dev succeeded wildly, and managed to meet and woo some random French girl while on holiday. It’s all he’s fucking talked about since we got back, and I actually miss the days when he was panting over Wellbelove. At least we saw him then; he’s hardly ever around anymore because he’s off talking to her.

“Ags, full offence intended, but I really don’t want to talk about your relationship issues with Snow,” I drawl.

“Also, he is stupid,” Niall adds, hunkering down further into his padded jacket and scooting a bit closer to me. He’s mad if he thinks he’s going to be able to leech any body warmth from me, but I don’t tell him off. He’s warm, and I’m freezing.

“He’s not stupid,” Wellbelove huffs, glaring at Niall. “He’s incredibly focused and attentive when something is important to him. I just don’t think I’m one of those things.”

I roll my eyes and nudge at her side with my foot.

“Ags, he’s mad about you. It’s extremely clear,” I say, absolutely not a trace of bitterness in my voice.

“All he cares about is the stupid Humdrum,” she continues, ignoring my limp attempt at compassion. “And I get it. But I’d just like to have _fun_ sometimes, you know? Forget about mortal peril and all that and do something normal.”

“You’re dating the Chosen One,” Niall says, tilting his head to the side and staring at her. “Why did you ever think you’d be normal?”

Niall has a compelling fucking point, but I elbow him in the side slightly and turn back to Wellbelove.

“Ags, you’re being—”

“Basilton!”

“Oh Merlin,” Wellbelove mutters under her breath quickly before looking up and smiling widely at the girl standing before us.

“Hi Trixie! Happy Halloween!” she says chirpily, looking like this girl is her best friend in the world. Wellbelove really is staggeringly well bred.

“Hi Agatha!” Trixie responds. Her hair is done up into bantu knots today. I wonder if you can culturally appropriate if you’re not human. “Basilton. You’re coming to the Halloween party.”

“No I’m not,” I respond politely. Trixie’s smile doesn’t falter.

“Yes, you are. We’ve a few new people who will be there, and I’ve had two different boys ask me if you’re coming. I said you were. Bring friends! Bring a date! Bring him!”

She points at Niall, and his eyes go wide as he starts to shake his head.

“What is this?” Wellbelove asks, raising herself onto her elbows.

“We’re having a Halloween party,” Trixie says. “Some of the LGBT kids get together and hang out. It’s always great fun. And Basilton will be coming.”

“Basilton will not,” I respond, but the girls have completely stopped paying attention to me.

“Oh, that sounds fun!” Wellbelove says, and I think she’s actually being serious. “Baz, can I come with you?”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and gives me her big brown doe eyes.

“Don’t say no,” she says, her voice firm. She sounds so much like Bunce right now that it’s scary. “Niall, you come too.”

“I don’t—” Niall starts, but Wellbelove turns back to Trixie.

“We’ll be there!”

“Oh good!” Trixie says, smiling, revealing the tips of pointed teeth between her bright blue painted lips. “Uh...will Simon be there? Just, we don’t like these things to get too big, and…”

“No,” Wellbelove says firmly. “Just the three of us.”

I start to protest, but Trixie has already gone.

“I’m not going,” I say, shaking my head. I have no intention of joining the Watford gay pride maffia. “I’ve a pressing lobotomy scheduled. I’m not going.”

I end up going.

Keris found me after dinner and told me to meet at the bottom of the staircase in the Weeping Tower, and at 10 pm sharp Niall, Wellbelove and I take our places. I invited Dev but he was singularly uninterested.

There’s a rustle to our left, and suddenly a door materialises where there was previously a large tapestry of a rabbit, and the door opens to reveal Keris.

“Come on in!” she says, waving us in. I trail behind Wellbelove and Niall into the room, and then stop dead in my tracks when I look around.

It’s the nursery. We’re in the Watford nursery.

My eyes go wide and I look around. The room doesn’t look like I remember — there are no cribs or tables or toy areas. But there are the big wide windows that I remember vaguely watching snow from. And there’s the large painting of a white hare with silver eyes on the ceiling. It’s smaller than I remember, though. Just two small rooms, not the large, cavernous hall that exists in my memory.

I wait for the horror to fill me. This is where my mother died. This is where I was turned. But —

It doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because I don’t actually remember it. I remember details leading up to it, I remember my mother dimly, but the actual attack — nothing. I’ve long suspected that Fiona might have employed an illegal memory charm at some point during my childhood nightmares, but now I’m almost certain of it. Standing here, I should be having vivid flashbacks, but. Nothing.

I can’t find it in me to me angry about that.

“You alright?” Niall whispers, hanging back to tug on my arm. I nod, slowly.

“This is—” I start, then stop. He knows all my other secrets. But this one… this one I think I’ll keep to myself for a bit.

Trixie steers us to a blanket in the middle where several students are chatting. I recognise Keris and a girl from the year below us, and the rest are students I’ve seen in passing but never really spoken to.

“Where are we?” Wellbelove asks, sitting down and immediately accepting a bottle of vodka that’s passed to her.

“Right now?” Keris asks, glancing around. “Well, to me it’s the basement of my parish church. What does it look like to you?”

“The cafeteria of my old school,” Wellbelove answers, her eyes skimming over the walls, clearly seeing something I don’t. There’s a shock to my system. So no one else is currently sitting in the nursery?

“Isn’t it brilliant?” Trixie gushes. “It’s different to everyone. We don’t know why it chooses the places it does, but it always seems to pull something from your childhood memory. Weird, huh?”

I squint at her. But...this _is_ vaguely where the nursery is, I’m fairly sure. Bottom level of the Weeping Tower. Fiona said that the room got absorbed by the tower, that no one could get into it anymore, that the wards to protect the children had gone into hyperdrive and just sealed off the whole room.

But maybe it didn’t seal off the room so much as disguise it.

I think I’m the only person here who can see what the room actually looks like.

Wellbelove passes me the vodka bottle and I take a long drink of it, looking around. I’ve always wanted to get in here, to see if there are any hints or clues about what happened — why it happened. But the room seems bare. There’s nothing here anymore. It’s been scrubbed clean.

“Baz, put on some music!” Wellbelove says, elbowing me, then turns to the group. “Basilton has the best music taste.”

An eighth year boy across the circle with messy brown hair grins at me.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, a look in his eye. “What genre do you listen to?”

“Ags, you choose,” I say, quickly handing her my mobile. Something about the eighth year’s look has me uncomfortable, and I dislike the notion of being put on the spot like this. He wants me to try to impress him, and frankly, I don’t want to.

Wellbelove puts on XTC and the vodka gets passed back and forth around the circle as people chatter. After a bit one of the other older boys gets up and moves to the window, where a box is sitting, and comes back with two large wraps.

“I keep my weed here,” he tells us, lighting a fire with his wand. “No one ever comes here.” He offers it to Niall, who glances at me before taking it. He takes a long drag and passes it to me, and I do the same, because why the hell not. I’m sitting in the room I died in. Why not get fucking stoned?

I offer the blunt to Wellbelove but she shakes her head and wrinkles her nose, and it gets passed back around the circle until almost everyone is buzzing. Especially the pixie.

“Oh my God, I love this song,” Trixie shrieks as the music switches to _Senses Working Overtime_. “Ker, dance with me.”

She jumps to her feet, dragging Keris with her. Keris is smiling, despite her show of hesitation, and happily loops her arms around the pixie’s neck.

“Baz?” Wellbelove asks, turning to me. I shake my head.

“I don’t dance,” I declare, even though it’s not true. I just don’t want to dance with Wellbelove. There’s really only one person I want to dance with, and that’s not going to happen. “Dance with Niall.”

Wellbelove rises in an elegant motion and holds her hand out to Niall. He glances at me and I smile encouragingly. He returns my smile and takes Wellbelove’s hand, pulling her awkwardly into his arms and spinning her quickly. She laughs, shaking her hair in turn to the music, and I lean back on my elbows to watch. The room smells like alcohol and weed and dust, and there’s a heavy weight in my chest that pulses in time to the music, settling in like some kind of melancholic contentment.

Niall spins her around the room, trods on her feet, shakes his head, his auburn hair falling in his eyes as they laugh together. A fifth year girl nearly my height joins in, snatching Wellbelove from Niall’s arms and spinning her faster and faster, and Wellbelove executes each turn like a perfectly trained dancer. Niall steps back, falling to the floor next to me, a grin still on his face as he leans into my shoulder.

“I’m glad she made us come,” he says, panting a bit, and I smile down at him.

“It could have been worse, I suppose,” I say slowly, and Niall knocks me in the arm.

“I feel bad for her, a bit. Dating Snow. Dealing with his baggage,” he muses, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “It can’t be easy being with someone like him.”

I tense up and  hum noncommittally.

“He’s got it rough as well,” I say quietly, because I’m weak, and in far too deep. “The Mage is wormed so thoroughly inside his head that he doesn’t know his ups from his downs. I imagine it’s not easy to be someone like him, either.”

Niall side eyes me, and I glance away. He’s always been far too good at extracting truths from me, and is far too observant for his own good.

But he doesn’t say anything, just reaches over for the vodka, takes a swing, and hands me the bottle. I take it gratefully, pulling a long swig of the foul tasting liquid, and go back to watching Wellbelove dance happily. Beside me, Niall hums along, his head bobbing back and forth against my shoulder.

 

***

 

I hate skanks.

I don’t care if they’re a protected magical species. I don’t care if they’re going extinct and we’re supposed to protect and nurture them. I want them all dead.

I got skanked. And I entirely blame the Humdrum.

The Mage had told us that there was a colony living in the Wavering Wood a few years ago, but everyone left them alone, because they have a fearsome reputation. They look a bit like white skunks, I suppose, and they act like skunks.

Except worse. So much worse.

The skanks came while we were at dinner, barrelling into the dining hall, knocking over chairs and tables, burrowing into food. All of them were congregating on Snow, and anyone who got in the way got skanked.

Snow, bless him, managed not to kill them. He and Bunce climbed up on a table and were throwing dishes at them, and then finally Snow did some kind of weird magic that brought in a fog and put them all to sleep. No one actually got hurt, luckily. It was actually mildly impressive.

But the smell. The smell is awful.

Skanks release this spray that clings to you and sticks to your hair and is entirely impossible to remove without using magical means. But instead of just making you smell like shit, it’s different to each person, and takes on the smell of the things they hate most. Like a customised bouquet of shit.

“You smell like cat urine,” Bunce says, scrunching up her nose as she follows Wellbelove, Niall and me to the hospital wing. Wellbelove has my hand clamped in a death vice and a look on her face that could kill a man. I’m right here with her.

“Actually, you kind of smell like garlic,” Snow says, sniffing at me and then making a face. He, Bunce, and Dev came through unscathed. Niall, Wellbelove and I got skanked, because we were trying to get the fuckers away from Snow.

I wasn’t wearing my leather jacket, thank fuck. I think I would have just offed myself if I were.

“Garlic?” I sputter. “The thing you hate most in life is garlic?”

“You also smell a bit like vomit,” he offers helpfully. I don’t strangle him because I’m busy trying to breathe through my mouth, since everything around me smells a bit like a combination of stale blood and fish.

“I smell like smoke,” Wellbelove whines, clutching my arm tighter as we catch up with the small pack of students milling around and waiting to be seen by the nurse.

“Smells like petrol to me,” Niall says, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, I like the smell of petrol,” I say. Beside me, Snow coughs a bit and nods.

“Me too. That’s weird, right?”

I shrug.

“Is it? I think it’s—”

“Okay, gather round!” A voice barks out, and all eyes turn to see The Mage. This is the first time he’s been on campus this year, and beside me, Snow practically preens. Now I know why he followed along.

“Those infected, please form an orderly line, so we can give you the cleansing paste,” the Mage says, ignoring Snow’s puppy eyes. “Miss Possibelf is making this as quickly as she can, so there may be a bit of a wait. In order to get rid of the smell, you have to be cleansed by someone pure of spirit. Just have them rub it in your hair for about fifteen minutes, then rinse it out, and the smell should be gone after you shower. Right, now, queue forms to the left here.”

“Pure of spirit? What does that mean?” Snow asks, frowning. Bunce and I glance at each other, and I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“He means a virgin,” I say, opening my eyes in time to see Snow blush royally. Wellbelove’s grip on my arm gets even tighter. “So, who wants to be my virgin sacrifice? Bunce?”

Bunce raises an eyebrow.

“Why can’t Dev do it?”

“Dev’s hardly pure,” Niall mutters darkly.

“Oh,” she says, then sighs and shifts into action mode. “Very well then. Niall, I’m pretty sure Rhys will be up to the job if you ask him. Simon, you wash Aggie’s hair.”

“No!” Wellbelove bursts out, and everyone in the circle freezes.

My throat drops to my stomach. Please tell me I’m not about to learn something about Snow and Wellbelove’s relationship that I’ve never, ever wanted to know. Snow goes crimson, and then so does Wellbelove.

“I meant,” she starts, stuttering, and blushes even harder. “Just, Simon, you’re so _rough_ , you always yank and get my hair tangled. Penny, will you wash mine? Simon, you can do Baz’s.”

“I don’t want Snow mangling my head either,” I protest. Snow looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“Please?” Wellbelove says, turning on her doe eyes. “I have a sensitive scalp.”

“Merlin and fucking Morgana, fine. Snow, are you virginal and up for washing my hair?”

He nods silently and stares at the ground.

“Brilliant, perfect,” I snarl, prying my arm from Wellbelove’s clutches and shoving my hands in my pockets. Can’t fucking wait. Just what I fucking want. For my fucking crush to have to wash my hair.

This shouldn’t be painful at all.

 

***

 

“Can we stop for a moment to appreciate that you need a virgin to cure skank smell?” I ask as I turn on my music. I sound nasally and weird, because I’ve shoved bath tissue  up my nose, along with everyone else in the room. At first I had been terrified when Wellbelove offered them, but they work extraordinarily well for blocking out the reek.

“I don’t want to appreciate anything about this,” Wellbelove snaps from her spot in the chair. She has a towel around her neck and her arms folded as Bunce slaps gobs of white paste into her hair. There’s not really any need for them to be up here, but somehow this seems like a communal activity, and I’m glad for it. The idea of Snow and me, alone in our room while he washes my hair…

No time for thoughts like that. Definitely not.

I sit down in the other chair and turn to glare at Snow, trying to look pissed off and not mildly, traitorously aroused.

“Don’t fuck up my hair,” I snap, and Snow just makes a mocking face, digs into the jar of paste, and dumps a huge glob on my head. It’s fucking freezing, and bits of it slowly drip down the back of my neck, leaving a wet, chilly trail that makes me shiver.

Snow begins smearing it around unevenly, distributing half of it onto my forehead, and nearly snaps my head back and forth with the pressure of his hands.

“Aleister fucking Crowley, no need to take my head off,” I snarl.

“Sorry,” Snow mutters, and the hands on my head get gentler. “Penny, how long do I have to do this for?”

“About fifteen minutes, or until the paste turns brown,” Penny answers, and Snow and I let out a collective annoyed sigh.

“Oh, hush,” Bunce chides. “It goes fast. Look, Agatha and I are almost done.”

“Yeah yeah,” Snow mutters, and goes back to rubbing the paste into my hair.

It’s more like a massage than anything, to be honest. Snow’s large hands are rubbing circles into my scalp, starting from the top and working their way toward the back of my neck. Every so often he bunches my hair in his fist to disperse some of the paste, and I have to keep myself from sighing in relaxation.

I’ve never really had anyone rub my head before, and this feels amazing. I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes and letting relaxation wash over me, numbing my limbs and making me feel heavy. Snow’s hands keep working, rubbing circles and twirling hair.

About five minutes in, I hear Snow start to hum along to The Clash. _Train In Vain_.

“ _You say you stand,_ ” Snow sing-mutters under his breath, “ _by your man. Doo doo doo. Tell me something. I don’t understand. Doo doo doo._ ”

“ _You said you love me, and that’s a fact,_ ” he keeps mumbling. His hands subtly tap out the drum beat on top of my head. “ _And then you left me, said you feel trapped._ ”

I feel like my chest is swelling, like there’s a physical ache there that I can’t properly explain, but it’s left me feeling breathless.

“ _Doo doo doo,_ ” Snow sings, imitating the guitar riff as he finishes off the bridge. I grin.

“ _You didn’t stand by me,_ ” he sings louder and totally off key, and I can’t stop myself from filling in with, “ _No, not at all._ ” Above me, Snow laughs, and I feel like I’m going to explode as we finish up the chorus together.

“ _You didn't stand by me. No way_ ,” we sing. He drums with his fingers again and rounds into the next verse. I don’t join him; I just listen to him sing, badly and off key and sounding like he’s having a blast.

“What the fuck is happening?” Bunce says. My eyes snap open and the happiness rising in me is quashed. She and Wellbelove are staring at us with wide eyes.

“I have no idea,” Wellbelove answers. “But it’s extremely cute.”

I don’t have to see Snow to tell that he’s blushing, and his hands falter on my head for a moment, and he stops singing and clears his throat.

Awkwardness hangs heavy in the air.

“If you don’t keep doing your job, we’re never getting the smell out,” I snap, clearing my throat and trying to drive away the multitude of feelings threatening to drown me.

“Oh,” Snow fumbles, his hands starting up again. “Yeah. Sorry.”

This time, it’s not relaxing. The Clash rolls over into _Bizzare Love Triangle_ and the synth drums grate on me. I keep my eyes open and can see Wellbelove and Bunce glancing at us, and every motion of Snow’s hand feels like fire, like it’s too much and overwhelming, and I’m going to spontaneously combust.

When Wellbelove and Bunce stand up and disappear into the bathroom to rinse Wellbelove’s hair, the silence between us grows so heavy that I can’t handle it anymore.

“You know, after the dragon, skanks seem like a pretty lame thing for the Humdrum to send,” he says, trying to fill the silence of the room. Snow’s hand grazes along my neck, and I shudder, suddenly unsure of what to say.

It’s gotten much harder to talk to him since I stopped insulting him all the time.

“Mhm,” I agree, unable to formulate full sentences with his hands still working slowly through my hair. This is awful. I think he’s getting gradually gentler the longer this goes on, and I can’t figure out which I hate more; Simon’s rough hands massaging my head, or his long fingers slowly slipping through my hair.

My traitorous mind can’t just enjoy it though. All I keep thinking is that I could seriously get used to this feeling. This gentleness. It’s not something I thought I would ever experience from him. We’ve slowly gotten past the raw antagonism, but we’ve settled on a rough, prickly friendship in its place. There’s no room for softness there.

I close my eyes again, trying to breathe evenly and praying to every deity I’ve ever heard of that I won’t get an erection right now, because there’s almost no real way to hide it, and if he keeps twirling my hair like that it might be unavoidable.

“It’s, uhm,” Snow says suddenly, his voice a bit croaky. He clears his throat and starts again. “It turned brown. So now we, uh, rinse it out.”

“Oh,” I say, my own voice equally weak. “Right. Yes.”

My legs are unsteady when I stand, and Snow dodges ahead of me to knock on the door to the en suite. I pull the tissues out of my nose, because I’m done looking like a wally.

“Er, we’re done!” Snow calls through the door. “You almost finished in there?”

The door swings open immediately to reveal Bunce leaning against the sink while Wellbelove lounges on top of the closed toilet lid, one of my towels wrapped around her hair. They appear to have just been having a casual chat.

“We’ll be in my room when you’re done. Baz can just text me,” Wellbelove says, standing up and straightening her skirt. Bunce rolls her eyes.

“You know, one day you two are going to get caught with your illegal mobiles, and I absolutely will not break into the Mage’s office again to get them back for you,” Bunce says, her voice growing muffled as she exits the room. Wellbelove follows, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze and then stopping to place a kiss to Snow’s cheek.

Snow looks startled and surprised by the action, and just stares at her as she leaves.

“Right, let’s get this over,” I say, snapping his attention back to me as I start to slowly unbutton my school shirt.

“What are you doing?” Snow exclaims, his eyes going wide. There’s a small pang, because I can’t tell if his alarm is because he’s still scared of me, or because he’s finally heard I’m gay, or because he’s just super unused to us being casual around each other.

“Calm down,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “I’ve a t-shirt on underneath, I just don’t fancy getting my shirt soaked.”

Carefully hanging my shirt on the towel rack, I turn back. It feels weird to be standing in front of Snow in my tight undershirt, but I can’t put my finger on why. I’ve been less dressed during my football matches, and he goes to all of those. He’s seen me in a t-shirt and sleep pants more times than I can count. But something about this feels odd, and Snow is...staring.

Really staring.

“How are we going to do it?” I say, and his eyes snap up from from my chest to my face, his blue eyes panicked and blown wide.

I’m going to go with gay fear, then.

“How are we going to rinse my hair?” I snap. “Sink or tub, which do you think is easier?”

“You’re too tall for the sink,” he says, clearing his throat. “Tub, I guess. I guess you’ll have to — er — get on your knees.”

He winces.

Definitely gay fear.

“Or we could just detach the shower head,” I say in the most condescending voice I can manage, twisting the water on and picking up the shower head from its cradle and handing it to him. This way I can stay standing and just lean a bit over the tub, and not have to sit there, ass up, while Snow tries to hover over me.

That’s a thought for an entirely different day.

“I didn’t know that detached,” he says in wonder, and I bite down a remark, lean slightly over the tub, and wave with my hand to signal for him to get a move on.

The music is still on in the room, and _Ça Plane Pour Moi_ is playing. It bounces off the tile of the tub and echoes around my head, mixing with the sound of the water tapping against the floor of the tub.

The warm water hits my head and sends more shivers down my spine as Snow begins slowly massaging the paste out of my hair. He’s being gentle again.

“Is that too hot?” he asks, and I shake my head, not trusting my voice right now.

“Erugh,” he mutters, and I realise belatedly that I probably sprayed him with water when I shook like a dog. I do it again.

“Stop it!” he yells, bringing his hands up to cover his face, spraying me in the face with the shower head in the process.

“Merlin’s fucking ballsack,” I sputter, wiping water out of my eyes. “You fucking moron—”

I snatch the shower head from Snow quickly and turn it on him, completely drenching him. His curls plaster themselves to his forehead sadly, and a bead of water drips down his crooked nose. I did that. It never healed properly after he fell down the stairs.

“What the fuck, Baz!” he yells, but he doesn’t seem overly angry.

“Stop being a moron and just finish washing my fucking hair!” I retort, handing him the shower head back. But I am smiling. Just a bit.

Snow takes it and glares at me for a moment before putting a heavy hand on my head and yanking it down, viciously scrubbing the water through it.

“Now I know what Wellbelove meant,” I mutter, and he scrubs harder.

We’re silent for a moment more as Snow gets all the paste out of my hair, and then finally he stops and leans across me to turn off the water.

“Leave it on,” I say, and his head turns to look at me with a question, and I’m suddenly aware of how incredibly close he is to me. He just stares, not moving away, asking an unspoken question.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I answer, and he blinks.

“Oh. Right,” he says, but he still doesn’t move.

He’s so close. His mouth is just there, his eyes half lidded. There’s drops of water still sparkling in his eyelashes, reflecting off his blue eyes, and his mouth is half open, because he’s a mouth breather, and he’s not moving.

I bite my lip, and his eyes zero in on my mouth.

“Snow,” I say slowly, my voice low.

“Yeah?” he responds, his eyes still on my lips. I think. I’m not imagining that, am I? I have to be imagining that. There’s no possible way.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I repeat. I clear my throat, and then in a more normal tone say, “I need to get undressed now.”

Snow’s few remaining brain cells wake up, and he snaps back to reality, shoving the showerhead at me and taking a large step back. He succeeds in spraying us both with the water while doing so, and it gives me a blessed opportunity to shout at him and get us back on level footing.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he yells, almost bolting out of the bathroom door. “Sorry! I’ll just — er — be at dinner.”

He slams the door behind him and I blink after him, incredibly confused about what just happened.

  


***

 

Simon Snow is sick.

He has some kind of flu, and I assume it is normal and not some magical curse he picked up while traipsing through the jungles after the Mage, but regardless, I’m giving him a wide berth. Because he keeps sniffling.

“Don’t you have tissues or something?” I snap after he sniffles snot loudly for the fifth time in an hour.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, reaching over to grab a wad of toilet tissue from his bedside table, then goes back to squinting at his books. He’s actually trying to study for a test. I’ve never seen this happen before. Usually Bunce oversees this, I think, but I know she’s refusing to go near him because of his illness. She did bring him notes though, and some tea, so I suppose he hasn’t been fully abandoned.

He blows his nose with a deafening honk, and then immediately sniffles.

“I’m putting on music,” I say with a sigh, standing and stretching slightly as I reach up to turn on the bluetooth speaker, then do the necessary spells. We’ve refined the alarm system on the door. Snow gave me the idea, actually, on the first day back when I walked in and could smell his blood from where he’d pricked his finger to get the door to remember him. He always does shit like that — goes basic and pagan, instead of just learning the proper fucking spell.

Anyway, I did some experimenting, and shed some blood, and now our door will glow gently if anyone who isn’t us is coming up the stairs. It makes it far easier to play music without going through a million spells. Even Snow was suitably impressed.

(He said, “wicked,” when I showed him, which I think is Snow-speak for, “you’re devastatingly handsome and blindingly brilliant.) (At least that’s what I’ve chosen to believe.)

“Do you prefer Nick Drake or Soft Cell?” I ask, even though I’m going to put on Nick Drake despite whatever he says.

“Nick Drake” he answers without looking up, and I hit play on _‘Cello Song_ , feeling a little warm inside. Merlin, I hate him. I should leave the room and just go to the library to work, but…

But I’m weak.

We listen in silence for a few moments, interrupted only by the sound of his sniffles and the patter of autumn rain outside, and then finally—

“Hey, Baz?”

I don’t answer, just hum.

“You know the Premal thing?” I tilt my chair back on two legs and turn around in my seat to stare at him. Where is this going? Is Snow about to ask me for a drug hookup? His red flush has spread from his nose to the rest of his face, and he looks down at his books. “Was that… were you… were you dating?”

My chair slips out from under me and I barely manage to catch myself before landing on my ass.

“Bunce? Merlin and fucking Morgana, no,” I shout, shaking my head. “Gross. No. He sold me weed.”

I knew Snow was going to have a reaction sooner or later, but I never, ever expected that it would be this. Never in a million years. I’d prepared myself for him to be homophobic and tell me to stay away from him, or for him to awkwardly try to tell me that being gay is a-okay.  A few nights spent thinking about that weirdness in the bathroom when he washed my hair led me to even briefly consider a different, far more enjoyable possibility. But never this.

“He sold you _weed_?” Snow exclaims, his eyes going wide. “But he’s—”

“Premal, really?” I say, still stuck on this. “Fucking gross. Please, I have better taste than that.”

“I just thought that—”

“Crowley, have you seen him? He looks like a troll.”

“I don’t believe he—”

The door begins glowing a soft golden light, and we both freeze. I pause my music and tear the bluetooth speaker off the shelf, throwing it to Snow, who catches it easily and shoves it under his pillow just as there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s Niall!” comes a voice on the other side, and Snow and I let out a collective sigh of relief. He pulls the speaker out from under his pillow and places it on his bedside table as I move to let Niall in.

Niall sits down on my bed, and I close the door behind him before turning my music back on. Niall pulls out a pack of crisps and his book from his bag, and holds the food out in offering.

“Mind if I stay here? Dev is Skyping with the French girl and I really don’t want to be in the room.”

Accepting Niall’s offering of crisps, I turn back to my work and shake my head. Premal Bunce.

“What’s up with you two?” Niall asks, taking in my still horror-struck expression and Snow’s wild blush.

“Oh, nothing,” I snap. “Snow just thought I was dating Premal Bunce.”

Niall screws up his face into an expression of sheer horror.

“Ew.”

“I just thought that’s why he and Penny wouldn’t tell me how they knew each other! And Premal is gay, so—”

Niall and I make eye contact. I didn’t actually know that, but I’m not going to let Snow know.

“Just because we both happen to be gay doesn’t mean we’re automatically dating, Snow,” I say coldly.

“Right, no of course,” he mumbles, staring down at his books. I turn back to my homework, sure that’s the end of it, but then—

“ _Have_ you ever had a boyfriend?” Niall asks before sticking a crisp in his mouth and smiling cheekily at me. I glare.

“Not sure if that’s your business,” I snap.

“That’s a no,” Snow mutters. Niall nods in agreement.

“I don’t remember asking for a discussion of my private life,” I snarl, but Niall just holds his hands in the air, the picture of innocence.

“I was just curious. You never talk about this stuff with us. Dev and I prattle on and on, and you’re totally silent.”

“Tell me then, what do you want to know? What personal secrets are you just dying to hear?” I drawl, spinning my chair around to properly face them and abandoning my work. I glance nervously at Snow — I’m not thrilled that he’s here, but I can always just lie if anything too embarrassing comes up.

Niall puts his head in his hand and considers it a moment.

“How did you know you were gay?” Snow asks instead. His face is properly red, but he’s not looking away.

Both Niall and I turn to stare at him, and I’m about to say absolutely not, we’re not doing this, but Niall nods. His cheeky grin has faltered, but he looks determined.

“Yeah. Good question, Snow. How’d you know?”

I stare at them. What is this, an after school special? Do I look like some kind of gay ambassador?

“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “How do people _not_ know? It’s just… there. It’s a thing.”

“Right,” Niall says slowly, then swallows. “But like… how did you start figuring it out? Was it like a person you kind of starting thinking about, or—”

I narrow my eyes at Niall. I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or not, but he looks vaguely embarrassed, and nervous, and —

Maybe he’s not fucking with me.

I file that away for later dissection.

“Yeah, there was someone,” I say, deliberately not looking at Snow. “I was attracted to him and that’s how I realised. There were other clues as well, I guess, but. That’s the big one.”

“Who was it?” Snow asks, his voice almost a whisper. He looks fascinated, his mouth partially hanging open.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

My mind does a quick calculation. I could name another boy at school. I could make up someone from London, but Niall would know I was lying. I could just say it was David Bowie, but that feels weird. So I settle for the truth.

“Professor Hollow,” I say through gritted teeth, clenching my hand. I have no idea why I’m telling them this. Maybe it’s because Niall knows all of my other secrets and has never once turned his back on me. And maybe it’s because I’m pathetically in love with Snow and a masochistic part of my brain is wishing he’s asking these questions because he’s suffering his own sexuality crisis which will lead him into my arms.

“Oh my God,” Niall says, inhaling so fast that he starts choking on a crisp.

“I don’t know him,” Snow says with a shrug.

“He’s the Classics professor,” Niall says, shaking his head. “He’s really young and cool. He sometimes sits with the Centaur at meals?”

Snow scrunches up his face.

“Brown hair? Glasses?” I nod, absolutely humiliated. Comprehension dawns on Snow’s face. “Oh, yeah, he is pretty fit.”

I file that comment away next to the memory of Snow saying he’s attracted to goblins, and prepare to steer the conversation in a direction that will preserve my sense of self.

“He listens to the Talking Heads, doesn’t he?” Niall asks, barreling over my chance to change the subject.

“ _Oh_ ,” Snow says, like this explains everything, and I want to set them both on fire.

“As interesting as this,” I say tetchily, “I’m done with this conversation.”

“So do you fancy anyone now?” Niall asks, completely ignoring me and crunching happily on a crisp, apparently forgetting one almost killed him a second ago. Snow leans forward and puts his chin on his hand, his elbow propped on his book, the picture of an interested student.

I glare at them both.

“ _No_ ,” I lie, looking disgusted. “Everyone at this school is revolting.”

“Except for me, right?” Niall asks.

“Especially you,” I snap. I can’t keep my eyes from flitting over to Snow, to see his reaction, to see if he’s still watching me. Snow stares across at Niall like he’s just seeing him for the first time, then back to me. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but he’s clearly thinking something, because he has his thinking face on, which largely consists of him staring at something really hard until I worry he’s going to catch fire.

But suddenly he shrugs, blows his nose, and goes back to his homework.

I glare at Niall, trying to communicate as violently as possible that this conversation is over, and turn back to my homework.

“Niall, pass me that hoodie?” Snow mumbles from behind me, and I catch myself watching out of the corner of my eye as he catches the bundle that Niall just tossed him. He peels his school jumper off, taking his button down with it, until he’s wearing just his white vest, then hurriedly pulls the hoodie on over his head. He destroys his hair getting it on, but I can’t even focus on how soft his curls look, because I’ve just noticed something life changing.

Snow isn’t wearing his cross.

 

***

 

I smell Snow before I see him, hints of smoke wafting toward the pitch from the Wavering Wood. There’s a thudding sound ringing from the woods, and my feet carry me toward it.

Snow is grunting with exertion, clouds of magic leaking from him as he hacks away at a tree on the edge of the Wood. I’m not sure this is what you’re supposed to do with a magic sword, but Snow doesn’t seem to care. He’s ditched his duffle coat and rolled up his sleeves, and I can see his arms straining with exertion, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. I can smell the sweat off of him from here.

“I’m sure the Mage will be ecstatic when you break his sword,” I drawl after a few moments of watching him unobserved from the treeline. He stops for a breath to glare at me, then starts hacking again, more energetic than before.

“Oh, I touched a nerve, did I?”

Strolling forward — and keeping out of reach of the sword — I examine him closer. He looks like shit. He looks stressed beyond belief, to the point where I can almost _smell_ the anxiety on him and hear his rapidly spinning heartbeat.

“Snow,” I say, cautiously, stepping into the line of fire. He stills his sword and glares at me, panting. “What’s wrong?”

He turns and kicks at a bush.

“Nothing,” he grunts, and hacks at a low hanging limb.

“Clearly something, unless you’ve chosen to give up magic and become the world’s most ineffectual landscaper,” I argue. “Come on, what’s got your knickers in a twist? Is it the Mage? I thought he was gone?”

“He came back,” Snow mutters, throwing his sword into the dirt and kicking at a tree. “Then he left again before I got a chance to talk to him. I waited outside his office for an hour and he just walked on by.”

I frown. Crowley, he really can be pathetic sometimes.

“Well, I’m sure he was busy,” I lie. “What did you want to talk to him about?”

“The Humdrum,” he sighs, wiping his curls from his forehead. “Wanted to know if he’d discovered anything. He’s been gone so much. But he’s not talking to me for some reason, he won’t tell me anything ever, and I don’t know why, or if I did something—”

He seizes up, his fist clenching and unclenching, and the magic around him gets thicker. A leaf catches on fire and I startle back.

“Snow, calm down,” I say, but he’s not listening. He’s breathing faster, and I’m seriously worried he’s going to blow.

Glancing around, I do mental calculations. He’s not going to hurt anyone but me out here, but I don’t like the idea of letting him go off so he can burn down the Wood and take me with it. But I’ve no idea how to calm him down. This is Bunce’s job. I was on my way to the Weeping Tower, I wasn’t even going to _stop_ , but he’s so pathetic and broken and keyed up and—

“Come with me,” I say, turning sharply and heading out of the Wood. I don’t look back to see if he’ll follow me. I know he will. It’s the only thing I’m ever sure of when it comes to Snow.

He trails me across the campus and into the Weeping Tower, down the long hallway on the bottom floor until we get to the tapestry with the hare, and I pause. I haven’t thought through this. I always have a plan, and I’m completely winging it right now. But his face is all red and he’s so fucking upset, and all I ever want in life is for Simon fucking Snow to be happy.

“Where are we?” he asks, and I ignore him, pushing the tapestry aside to reveal a door that appears from nowhere. Taking a deep breath, I push it open and head inside.

“You tell me,” I say, turning to look at him. He’s staring around, his mouth open, and he starts to back up.

“It’s — I — what? How—”

“What does it look like to you?” I ask again, genuinely curious. For everyone else it seems to generate the backdrop to a generic and calming childhood memory. But I don’t know if Snow has any of those.

“It looks like…” he trails off and blinks again. “It’s the dining hall. But it’s not, we passed the dining hall.”

I raise an eyebrow and try not to think about the fact that Snow’s good memories apparently start with Watford. Instead I cross to the window where the eight year boy hid his weed on Halloween and dig around inside the stash. He’s prepped a few cigarettes already, so I pull one out and light it with my hand.

“Is that weed? Are you smoking weed?” Snow asks, his mouth dropping open.

“We’re not in the dining hall,” I say, ignoring him. “We’re in the Watford nursery.”

Snow blinks once, twice, then his eyes go wide.

“It just—it moved,” he says, looking around. “The room changed.” He whirls on me. “Did you do that, or was it like some kind of self-defence spell the room put on itself?”

For an idiot, he can be staggeringly observant at times.

“The room did it. I didn’t know if it would show itself or not.”

He paces around, looking at the windows and eyeing the large hare mural with the eye of someone who is used to investigating strange magical phenomenons. I guess he would be, given his penchant for adventure.

“I didn’t know Watford had a nursery,” he says finally, turning on me. I shrug and take a pull from the joint in my hand and settle myself onto the blanket on the floor.

“We don’t. Not anymore.”

Snow sits across from me.

“Why not?”

I take another long pull, hold the smoke in, and then blow it in his face. He coughs and waves the smoke away.

“The room got absorbed by the building in 2002, after my mother and I were attacked by vampires here.”

I hold out the joint and Snow eyes it warily. He looks on edge, like he’s expecting this all to be an elaborate trap.

“I’m not going to peer pressure you. I just thought it might calm you down,” I snap, withdrawing my hand. “My mistake for forgetting you’re an uptight Boy Scout.

“Why do you care?”

I eye him. Because I love him, obviously. And because ever since that moment of rippling sexual tension in the bathroom and his probing questions about being gay, I’ve begun wondering if there might be something there on Snow’s side as well.

“You seemed stressed,” I say instead. “Thought you might like a distraction. And you seem to like mysteries.” I spread my hand toward the room around us. “So I brought you to one.”

Snow squints.

“It’s just a room, though,” he says, looking around. “What’s the mystery?”

I take another long drag of the joint, and then fall back onto my elbows. I’m beginning to feel boneless.

“Why did the room feel the need to hide itself?”

The question hangs between us, and then suddenly Snow surges forward, snatching the joint from my hand.

“I’m not a Boy Scout,” he says, putting it awkwardly into his lips and inhaling, taking far far too much, and I fight back a smile. That’s my Snow. Never one to back down from a challenge, even if it’s a stupid one.

“Good boy,” I drawl, finally smiling, and he coughs and sputters as he releases the smoke.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, then crumbles the joint up in his hand and throws it to the side. “Ugh, gross. That hurt my throat.”

“I’m amazed. I thought you were half dragon. You’re always blowing smoke and setting something on fire. Dev once said you’re like a great clobbering beast.”

“Do you always have to do that? Do you always have to go for the lowest blow?” he asks, jutting out his chin.

“Yes,” I answer, watching him. His eyes are starting to go glassy. He took one hit. There’s no way that’s enough to buzz him.

“Well how about you don’t,” he mutters.

“Come on, Snow, don’t be like that. It’s not like I hurt your feelings,” I say, lying down on my back and staring up at the hare. “Just a bit of harmless banter between lads.”

My words sound like bullshit even to me.

I expect Snow to huff, to curse me out, to get up and kick me. But I don’t expect him to pull his knees up and tuck his chin in and look down at the ground like he’s about to cry.

“You’re such a twat,” he mumbles. “I know all I’m good at is going off but why do you have to constantly give me shit about it?”

I pick up my head and stare at him, surprised. Snow isn’t exactly the sensitive sort. I mean, not for awhile, at least. Not since he started learning to just hit me.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, because I can’t bring it in me to try to tell him he’s wrong, he’s so much more.

“That’s the problem, innit? I never do. I never think. I just go off. I just chase down whatever is coming at me. I’m not supposed to understand, just supposed to kill.” He stares angrily at the ground and smashes his hand down into it. “That’s what the Mage thinks. That’s why he won’t talk to me, why he won’t tell me anything.”

“The Mage is too wrapped up in himself to think anything of the sort,” I rebut.

“He won’t _talk_ to me!” he shouts, slapping the ground again. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have given him that weed. I think Snow may get angry and depressive when stoned. I guess we have that in common. “He’s avoiding me! And Aggy doesn’t get it, she tells me to stop talking about it, and I try, I really do, but that doesn’t matter either.”

He stops and stares up at me.

“I’m a shit boyfriend,” he says, his voice small. “I try to be good enough for her. I try to be a good boyfriend, but it doesn’t seem to work. And I just don’t get it. She’s my _future_. She’s my endgame. So why aren’t I good enough?” I stare back at him, alarmed, and he breaks eye contact. “I’m only good for killing.”

“Crowley, Snow,” I say, shaking my head. “How long have you been thinking this?”

“I haven’t. I don’t think.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“I don’t think,” he says, more aggressive. “It hurts to think about the things you want or can’t have or the things that upset you. So I just...don’t.”

He stands up and brushes his trousers off.

“Thanks for showing me the room,” he says. “I’m going to go find food.”

He books it out the door, not once looking back, and I’m left to soak in the emotional mess he left behind.

His words hit me like a sack of bricks, making my chest go tight. There’s no real way to describe it. I’ve always wanted to get inside Snow’s head, but now that he’s let me…

I don’t want to be in a world where Simon Snow thinks he isn’t good enough. He’s the best thing I’ve ever known.

I wish I’d never brought him here. I wish I’d never gotten him high and had to bear confirmation of what I’ve always thought: that Simon Snow is broken.

And I wish I’d never let myself think, even for a moment, that Simon Snow could possibly love me. Because it’s clear that he doesn't, and never will.

I need to get the fuck over Simon Snow.

 

***

 

“Alright, I’m ready. Hit me.”

“ ** _Mamma said knock you out,_** ” I chant, waving my wand at Niall. The spell hits him square in the chest and he goes down with a heavy thud, landing on the pile of pillows we stacked behind him on the floor of the empty classroom.

 **_“Wakey wakey,_** **”** I say, flicking my wand again, and he comes back to consciousness with a gasp. I’m getting better — both at knock out spells, and at wake up spells. I was already confident I was going to get top marks on my final exams tomorrow, but this confirms it.

Niall smiles weakly at me as I hand him a bottle of water, and struggles up on his elbows.

“Are we done? Tell me we’re done,” he pants.

“We’re done,” I confirm. He holds out the water to me in an offering and I accept it, taking a quick sip then twisting the cap back on. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to help me practise.”

Niall waves one hand carelessly.

“It’s fine. I’d rather this than listen to Dev whisper sweet nothings into his laptop.”

“You’re really annoyed by his relationship, aren’t you?” I ask, furrowing my brows. I’m lacking my usual tact, but It’s fine — it’s just Niall. I can be blunt. And I’m feeling more blunt than usual lately, after my disastrous evening with Snow. It’s left me frayed around my edges and strung out and so, _so_ full of regrets and embarrassment.

My question catches Niall off guard and he blanches, making a face.

“It just sucks a bit, I suppose, to hear him constantly going on about his girlfriend. I mean, I’m happy for him,” he rushes to add, his eyes going wide. “But, it’s just always in my face a bit.”

“I know what you mean,” I respond, sitting on the floor next to him. The stone is freezing, just like every other room in this castle, because come December the Mage stops bothering to heat anything. “I can’t breathe without watching Snow and Wellbelove fall all over each other.”

“Yeah, except it’s worse because Dev and his girlfriend actually _like_ each other,” Niall retorts.

“You don’t think Snow and Wellbelove like each other?”

Niall shrugs.

“I think they like having someone to snog, but… neither of them seem very happy or excited about the other, do they? They kind of remind me of Dev’s parents, you know? Together, but not really?”

“You’re blisteringly observant when you put your mind to it,” I say, shaking my head. He’s right. I _know_ he’s right — I know that Snow isn’t happy. I heard it from his own mouth.

“Right now I’m observing that something’s bothering you,” Niall says, tilting his head. “Come on, out with it. What’s this year’s secret? Please don’t tell me you’re the Mage’s illicit love child or something.”

“No more secrets here,” I lie, then make a face. “Also, revolting. Never make that accusation again or I’ll set myself on fire.”

Niall snorts and steals the water back, twisting the cap through his fingers and worrying at the lid. Then he looks up.

“I think I made a spell, want to see?”

The sudden change of topic has me reeling, but I nod.

“Close your eyes, then,” he says, grinning widely, and I do. I hear him mumble something under his breath, and then his shoe nudges me. “Alright, open them!”

My eyes fly open to see… Niall.

He’s grinning at me like a madman, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to be impressed or shocked by, because absolutely nothing has changed.

“My eyes!” he says, pointing. “Look at my eyes!”

Niall’s eyes — usually a hazel brown, green on a good day — are now unmatched. One has stayed the original colour, and the other has lightened into a soft, muddy blue.

“Just like Bowie!” he says, grinning. “I got the idea from your Dve, actually. He was banging on about how Bowie has creepy eyes, and I knew there had to be a way to magically mimic heterochromia.”

“Actually,” I say in a dry voice, not looking away from Niall’s eyes, “Bowie didn’t have heterochromia. He just had eye damage. He got punched when he was fifteen and his pupil was permanently dilated, making it look darker.”

“You can sap the joy out of anything, you know that?” he says with a sigh. “How do you like them?”

His auburn hair is getting too long, and it’s falling against his forehead, and his odd eyes are wide and cheery and waiting for a response.

“You look just like Bowie,” I admit, finally matching his smile. “Well done, you.”

His smile hesitates a moment, and his eyes flick downward.

“I think…” he says, pauses, and restarts. “I think I’m more like Bowie than I realised. If you, er, know what I mean.”

The air hangs heavy between us.

“You’ve developed a sudden desire to shave off your eyebrows and dress in jumpsuits?” I ask, raising my own eyebrow in a joke, but I know exactly what he means. I know what he’s trying to tell me.

“I’m…” he takes a deep breath, “I think I’m bisexual.”

He’s holding his breath, his odd eyes looking anywhere but at me, and I can feel the nervousness rolling off of him in waves.

“Well, alright then,” I say, my voice even. I have to admit, this isn’t that big of a surprise to me. “I’ll alert the presses.”

I had expected that to break the tension, but it doesn’t, and Niall looks more stressed than before, and I catch myself reaching out and putting a hand on his knee.

“It’s alright,” I say, more than a little confused by his reaction. “Merlin knows I don’t give a shit. I’m glad you told me.”

Words of comfort don’t come easily to me, I know this, but I’m apparently doing a spectacularly shitty job, because Niall still looks like he may vomit.

“You said that there was a person—” he swallows. “Professor Hollow? But are you sure it wasn’t—” he stops. “Is it… is it really just having a happy relationship shoved in your face that bothers you? No other reason?” he asks, his tone sly, his voice soft. “It’s not because you…”

He’s jumping between topics so quickly I can’t keep the thread in my head, and I just stare at him.

“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” I answer, which is the truth.

“Are you in love with Snow?” he bursts out. He clenches the water bottle so tight that the cap bursts off of it, and before I even have time to argue, to tell him he’s so off base, that there’s nothing there, he’s flung the bottle aside. “I get it. I’d understand if you did, because I… when you live with someone and you know them, yeah? I mean, it’s hard not to…”

Understanding crashes over me.

Niall is in love with _Dev._

“Oh Crowley,” I breathe. Niall gives me a weak smile.

“And I’ve tried not to,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to distance myself and I’ve tried to even like _you_ actually, and I think I could, I think I could easily, but I’ve always thought you had something for Snow. Which is awful because you’re my best mate, and we’d work, and sometimes I think the only person who’ll ever want me was that fucking demon, and—”

“Niall,” I interrupt, and he stops. My heart is racing.

This is Niall. My best friend. The one who knows everything. I’ve never remotely thought of him like this; I’ve only ever wanted Snow. But… Niall knows me. He’s been there and he’s never turned his back on me, and he wants me. Or at least he wants to want me, which is something I’ll never get from Snow, sexual tension be damned.

This is what I’ve wanted: a chance. An opportunity to move on. An alternative option to the terrifying path my life is on.

“Niall,” I repeat. “Can I kiss you?”

His eyes go wide. And then he nods.

I put my hand on his cheek, close my eyes, and take a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS FEATURED IN THIS CHAPTER**
> 
> [Why Can’t I Touch It — Buzzcocks](https://open.spotify.com/track/037DAJ2ClglNQbEvXpGav4?si=MAmomD_gRcCiReb19mQsDw)
> 
> [Orgasm Addict — Buzzcocks](https://open.spotify.com/track/2f9j7k2Rm3dGvdU3bhjpHV?si=yP8LKMg8R5WRBXOARUSOKw)
> 
> [Senses Working Overtime — XTC](https://open.spotify.com/track/0XDv7SLyMkGcAnb12fMHa1?si=Psd9RrnRQ5yW7w0MCHvZhw)
> 
> [Train In Vain — The Clash](https://open.spotify.com/track/6ITuEsxEy2qPhqMowdDAeI?si=Ak3Sv54tQ2-JkJxn56ip2A)
> 
> [Bizarre Love Triangle — New Order](https://open.spotify.com/track/6wVViUl2xSRoDK2T7dMZbR?si=5TI1ubooT0iWSTaNXIGrxA)
> 
> [Ça Plane Pour Moi — Plastic Bertrand](https://open.spotify.com/track/71yCMlsD6qbD7NmNUEoVNR?si=Ea7EYCB9THqFTh5zJkTlrQ)
> 
> [‘Cello Song — Nick Drake](https://open.spotify.com/track/42yexCY4dCftowtAZXuAIj?si=j_-spx82RUeAY0FAs-83qg)
> 
>  


	10. TEENAGE KICKS | PART 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR SIX, PART 2: Learning adventures, illicit naps, token gay cousins and textually charged conversations. Malcolm Grimm does One Good Thing, and Craig Stainton has nice hands. All hail the goblin king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Mordelia's  **[Tired Punks and Little Puffs](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/6fsCcfJXqtT02LrngCHvS1?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) ** playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter Title:[Teenage Kicks -- The Undertones](https://open.spotify.com/track/7ATyLePQnHxFk5kzxWCcsh?si=QjfOdJcWSQygtk869PqobA)**
> 
>  
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello and welcome back to Rebel Rebel, my fix-it fic where everyone is gay and everyone gets character development! Thanks so much for reading along and being so wonderful. I live for your comments and they make me so, so happy! Always feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com/). xx- Ban
> 
>  
> 
> **Text Guide:**
> 
>  
> 
> NK - Niall Kelly
> 
> DG - Dev Grimm
> 
> AW - Agatha Wellbelove
> 
> BP - Baz Pitch

There is only one thing I hate about Fiona, and it is how easily she gets hungover.

A rule of silence descends upon our home. You’re barely allowed to breathe. You can’t move. Sometimes, to watch television, she’ll turn on closed captions and turn off the sound and hide the remote from me.

Which is why I’m sat on the sofa, watching _The Labyrinth_ in complete silence while Fiona groans and moans next to me like a Victorian fainting lady. It’s mostly fine; I’ve personally seen this movie at least forty times. We can both recite almost every word to this movie, due to my unfortunate obsessive phase when I was eight — wherein I fell asleep watching it every night — and the fact that it’s apparently some kind of comfort movie that helps Fiona through her hangovers.

Considering she’s a lightweight who could get drunk off of milk, we’ve seen it a bit.

“Stop paying attention to your friends and pay attention to David Bowie,” Fiona grumbles, rolling over on the sofa and nudging me with her foot. “I can’t believe I even have to _say_ that. David is silent right now, and your phone is not, and therefore he is more important.”

I roll my eyes but let my phone drop to my lap, where it buzzes merrily.

 

 **NK** : he spent three hours on the phone with her last night

 **NK** : and it took us forever to play fifa because he kept falling asleep as a result

 **NK** : and now its after eleven and he still isnt awake and im just chilling out here awkwardly with his dad and their weird dog that humps things

 **NK** : i think she’s draining his life force. maybe she’s a demon. a french demon.

 **NK** : merlin i hope she’s a demon

 **NK** : no i don’t. i dont mean that. i wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

 

“Who the fuck is texting you so much?” Fiona snaps, glaring.

“Niall,” I answer, gazing forward at the screen and deliberately showing no weakness. It’s her fault that she she can’t handle the three pints she had with dinner last night.

“Has it just been him this whole time? Merlin, isn’t he with Dev? You two need more friends, you’re all too obsessed with each other.”

I haven’t had blood yet this morning, so my face does not flare a bright red. Not that it would, because I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I absolutely am not thinking about the fact that I kissed Niall right before break and that we’ve been in constant contact ever since.

It’s not like I fell asleep last night with my phone in my hand after texting him until midnight like a teenage girl.

My phone buzzes again.

“Oh, just answer him and make it stop,” Fiona groans.

 

 **NK:** nevermind he’s finally awake!

 **NK** : we’re going for coffee, i will text later

 **BP** : _Please try not to kill him._

 **BP** : _I don’t have time to make new friends._

 **NK** : sure sure. enjoy your movie!

 

“There, he’s gone, no more texting,” I say curtly, sliding my phone back in the pocket of my joggers and reaching for my tea. The destroyed remains of breakfast litter the coffee table in front of us, and the neat freak within me wants to clean it up, but I resist. I like these lazy mornings with Fiona, where we don’t have to go do family obligations and we can sit around and shout and eat and be assholes together. Being responsible just ruins it.

I’ve been contemplating telling her about the kiss. Not the kiss itself — I’d rather burn myself alive than detail that. (Not that there’s much to detail.) (It was kind of awkward, but in a nice way.) It’s rather that I feel like I should tell her that Niall and I are —

Well.

Niall and I are...something.

Words I never thought I’d say.

We haven’t really talked about what this is, exactly. One kiss and a lot of text conversations does not a relationship make — especially when both of us are hung up on someone else — but it’s…nice. To have someone to talk to. To have the possibility of kissing someone again. To have someone who wants to kiss me, even knowing what I am. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get that.

Niall and I are nice.

My phone buzzes again and Fiona slams a pillow down on her face.

“I’m going to chuck that out the window in a moment, and next time I see Niall I’m cutting off his thumbs, the little shit.”

I frown and slide it back out of my pocket and look at the screen.

“It’s Wellbelove.”

“What does she want?” Fiona snaps. She doesn’t like Wellbelove. They’ve never met, but Fiona has some kind of grudge match with her aunt from school, and hates the entire family by association. I should probably ask more about it, but it kind of seems reasonable to me, so I’ve never pried.

“I’ll bet fifty quid she’s soliciting my opinion on her Christmas outfit,” I say, because that’s exactly what she texted me about yesterday.

“Why? You have awful fashion sense.”

I drop my mobile and stare at her, horrified. This is possibly the worst thing she’s ever said to me.

“Excuse me?” I ask, offended. “I have impeccable taste. You constantly look like you’re ready for a street fight, so forgive me for not bowing to your fashion expertise.”

 

 **AW** : save me. you will not BELIEVE what Simon did at dinner with my gran last night.

 **AW** : hint!!! It involved butter!!!

 

I snort and go to answer, but my phone buzzes again.

 

 **DG** : hey do you know why Niall is acting so sketchy?

 **DG** : he’s just been a little tetchy all break and he’s been texting someone obsessively

 **DG** : I’m kind of worried but I don’t want to insinuate he’s possessed again

 **DG** : but this isn’t really like him and I don’t know if something is wrong

 **DG** : but also he seems really happy? So maybe it’s a nice demon?

 **DG** : do you think he has a girlfriend?

 

My phone buzzes and a new message comes slamming in. Situations like this are probably why Bunce has her two friends only rule. I really should be more like her.

 

 **NK** : we are in line at starbucks and he’s texting her again!

 

Aleister fucking Crowley.

I shoot off a text to Wellbelove telling her I don’t want to know anything about any scenario that ever involves Snow and butter, and then I go to the group chat I have with both Dev and Niall.

It should be weird, talking to Niall about Dev and how he feels, given that we kissed, but it’s not. I never mind hearing Niall talk to me, and it’s nice to have someone who gets it. Not that I talk to him about Snow, though. I’m not there yet.

I probably will never be there.

But even with this nice thing between us, I don’t want Niall to be upset about Dev, which is frankly weird, because I’m not really one to care about others’ feelings.

 

 **BP** : _How about instead of standing together and texting me separately, you just talk to each other and let me watch my movie?_

 **NK** : oh. sorry :)

 **DG** : my bad

 **DG** : happy christmas eve!

 **BP** : _Fuck off_

 

My phone lights up with another text from Wellbelove.

“That’s it,” Fiona shouts, slamming the remote down on the table and picking up her coffee. “I’m going outside to smoke. I can’t handle this. I hate teenagers.”

“Enjoy your cancer,” I call after her, not looking up from my phone, where Wellbelove has just sent me a video of Simon Snow, in his pyjamas, playing _Dance Dance Revolution_ in front of a Christmas tree and failing miserably at it.

 _“Aggie, stop laughing at me!”_ comes his small, tinny voice, floating through the speakers. _“It’s fucking hard!”_

 

 **AW** : also, happy Christmas Eve baesilton! what are you up to today?

 

I hesitate for a moment before turning on my own camera and recording a quick video of the television where _The Labyrinth_ is still playing. It catches an excellent shot of Bowie’s ridiculous trousers. Right before I go to cut off the video, I hear Fiona hollering from the other room.

“It’s too fucking cold outside to smoke and I blame you!”

I swivel the camera around and give it a deadpan look.

“Apparently I control the weather,” I drawl, then send it off.

I’m trying to make myself be more casual with Wellbelove and do things like this. She’s a good friend, and she’s _different_ from everyone else I know. Dev is an Old Family man, Niall is my conscience. Bunce is an excellent study partner. Snow is a complicated rat’s nest of emotions. But Wellbelove is just… well, she’s just herself.

“I promise to stop texting, just come back in,” I shout to Fiona, but she’s already appeared like a dark cloud in the doorway.

“Fine,” she says, slouching back over to the sofa and throwing her pack of cigarettes on the table as she collapses. “By the way, you need to brush your hair. You’re looking a bit like the Goblin King there, mate.”

I flip her the V, then smooth my hair.

We settle back into the film and I forget about my ten million text conversations, and I abide by Fiona’s rule of silence, and she even chills out enough to make a crack here and there at the television. The film is over by the time I look back down at my phone and see that I missed five texts.

 

 **AW** : that movie looks weird. Is that david bowie?

 **AW** : oh, simon says it is

 **AW** : simon says happy christmas

 **AW** : okay im done relaying messages from him now

 **AW** : also he says he likes your hair, lol

 

*******

 

“Alright, I’m going to go Skype Olivia,” Dev says, pushing off of Snow’s bed and stretching. Niall’s eyes follow the hem of Dev’s jumper as it slides up slightly, and then his eyes latch onto mine and his ears go red. His eyes are still spelled, because he couldn’t get his Bowie spell to lift. And because of all his counter spell attempts, they’ve settled into a soft, muddy blue.

They look nothing like Simon Snow’s eyes.

I also hate that I really, really like them like this.

I clear my throat and nod at Dev, then quirk an eyebrow at Niall. This is potentially the first time since being back at school that we’re going to be alone, and I’ve been looking forward to it more than I necessarily expected. We haven’t really talked about us, or whatever this is. And we haven’t told Dev, because things are new, and we’ve only ever kissed once.

Though, if we get time alone, that may change.

I know he’s realised it as well, because he nods too quickly.

My heart beats against my throat in time with _Road To Nowhere_. I feel like I’ve had The Talking Heads playing on repeat since the kiss, but no other music has managed to capture the erratic, buzzy, happily shaking feeling that’s been knocking around inside me.

“Right, yeah, I’m going to stay here a bit,” he says, looking down at his book. Dev doesn’t argue or suspect anything at all, and instead just pats Niall’s head in a good natured way.

“It’ll be a short call, but we’ll watch that movie when I’m done, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright,” Niall says, smiling after him, but Dev is gone, out the door, and I’ve already stood up from my bed and am making my way across the room to Niall.

“I think we should—oh,” he says, looking up to see me leaning against the desk next to him. He goes even redder. It’s something I’ve noticed I like about him. He’s stereotypically Irish, from his auburn hair to his ruddy skin, and when he’s embarrassed his ears light up.

“What should we do?” I ask, leaning in a bit. I don’t know where this courage has come from, to be honest. Maybe because it’s _Niall_ and I know him. Maybe because I’m not actually mad about him, so I really have nothing to lose. Maybe because I’m sixteen and I’ve finally been kissed and I just want to do it some more.

Niall stands up from the desk chair and shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“No, I meant to say we should talk about us.”

“Alright, what about us?” I ask, stepping forward and crowding him against my desk. I think this is how this is done. Honestly, I’m just stumbling my way through this as I go along.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets as he leans forward again, his lips brushing against mine for the slightest of seconds.

There’s no spark. No nothing. Pop culture and books have got that detail wildly wrong. Just soft, dry lips moving against my own. The quiet sigh of his breath against my face. He’s warm, and he’s gentle, and he pulls back.

“I don’t want to date you,” he says.

It doesn’t sting.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, alright.”

I step back quickly, and his eyes go wide and he catches at my jumper.

“No, I mean, well — you don’t want to date me either, do you? If you had your ideal, it wouldn’t be me, would it?”

“Niall—” I start, but he shakes his head.

“I’m not putting myself down, I’m just being honest. Neither of us are exactly 100 per cent invested.”

I frown. This is not how I thought this was going to go. I kind of thought we could just kiss and then worry about the bullshit later. It’s not typically my style, since I’m as emotionally sensitive as a porcupine, but as it turns out, I really like kissing.

Maybe its a vampire thing. Like an oral fixation or something.

(That sounds far worse than I meant for it to.)

“Well, when you put it that way…” I start. I haven’t said anything about Snow to him, but obviously he knows. I just can’t lower myself to vocally pine and whine about it.

“I liked...you know. Doing that, with you,” he whispers, and I can feel his face heat up, even from here. He’s warm. Not as warm as Snow.

I have to push that thought out of my mind. I don’t want to be making comparisons.

“We don’t have to be dating to do that,” I tell him, frankly shocking myself with my boldness. “We could just see where this goes. Let ourselves be happy with someone. I’ve never tried it before, but I’ve heard happiness is fun.”

“Right,” he answers, hesitant. His muddy blue eyes flick down to the floor. “But...what if it goes bad? You’re my best mate. I don’t want this to be awkward or end with someone heartbroken.”

“It’s not awkward unless you fall in love with me,” I say. “I know it might be hard not to.” I cross my arms and lean back against the doorway, an eyebrow cocked. I didn’t expect to have to fight for this, and it’s caught me a bit off guard, because I never fight with Niall.

The song changes, rolling over into _Ziggy Stardust_ , and I’d be lying if I said the combined effort of David Bowie’s voice and the deeply familiar guitar chords didn’t calm me a bit.

“Baz, I’m serious. Stop being you and be serious,” Niall scolds. It’s a real scolding, not the huffy, exaggerated type Snow gives me. “Whatever this is isn’t worth messing up our friendship. And I really need this friendship.”

“I am being serious,” I sigh. Damn Niall. Damn him and his emotional maturity and his determination to always talk things out. “I have no intention of fucking this up. We both know where the other one stands. And we agree that no matter what happens, we put our friendship first, yeah?”

“So we’re not dating,” he states, nodding as if he’s just starting to understand a difficult concept. “We’re just being there for each other sometimes?”

“That’s my general plan, yes. No heartbreak.”

“So you don’t mind?” He’s moved from the desk and is approaching me now, one corner of his mouth pulled up into a small smile. “You don’t mind that I’m hung up on Dev?”

“Of course I mind,” I sniff. “Dev is revolting and it makes me seriously doubt both your taste and your mental health.”

Niall makes a face, and I feel only a little bit bad.

“But no. As far as I’m concerned it’s...fine. I guess I…” I take a deep breath. “I understand.”

“So you really want to do this?”

“If you stop speaking, yes,” I respond, stepping back toward him. He shakes his head, and not in a cute way.

“I’m not Snow. Don’t be shitty with me, it doesn’t work.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh Merlin, is this how you flirt?”

“No,” I say, sounding offended, even though I think he’s actually spot on. “Shut up. I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Alright,” he says, and leans in.

Our lips press together in a very soft, somewhat awkward kiss. Should I put my hands on his hips? Would it be weird to touch his hair? I’ve just started to kind of move my chin a bit when I smell Snow.

I leap back from Niall seconds before the door pushes open.

“Baz!” Snow yells, looking around the room. His eyes land on Niall, standing by my desk, his face red. Snow frowns, then turns to me. My heart is pounding against my chest and I feel like I just got caught doing something bad. “Baz, I found something. In the nursery. You’ve got to see this.”

“What were you doing in the nursery?” I ask, as Niall says, “nursery?”

“I, uh, go there sometimes to think,” Snow responds. I blink. I go there to think as well. How many times have we narrowly missed each other? And why does Snow go there? Doesn’t he usually have an adventure of his own to handle around this time each year?

Also, Snow told me that he doesn’t think.

“Anyway, come on, you’ve got to see this.”

Niall and I look back and forth at each other, and Snow huffs.

“Niall can come too, that’s fine. Just, come on,” he says, actually reaching out to grab my sleeve, like a child who wants attention. Niall and I exchange a look, and allow ourselves to be led out of the room.

“Keep it down though,” Snow says halfway down the stairs. “Probably shouldn’t let too many people know.”

 

***

 

By the time we get to the nursery, we’ve managed to pick up Dev, Wellbelove _and_ Bunce. Dev heard us heading out of Mummers and poked his head out the door.

“Where you going?”

“No idea,” Niall answered.

“Can I come?”

“Just hurry up!” Snow had barked, and off we went.

“Are you going back to stare at the bunny?” Bunce asked when we found her heading out of the library.

“Apparently,” I answered, and she shook her head with a sigh.

“Oh, Simon. Why do we have to go _looking_ for adventures? Don’t they usually just find us?” But she fell into step beside him as we made our way across campus.

We picked Wellbelove near the Cloisters. She didn’t ask any questions, just saw us trooping along and waved a hello and took my hand. She does this now. I never see her walking hand in hand with her actual ruddy boyfriend, but whenever we’re heading anywhere, she’s always hanging off of my arm.

I keep meaning to have a conversation with her about the harmful stereotype of the gay male best friend, but other things keep happening.

Snow marches us into the Weeping Tower and down the hallway to the rabbit tapestry, and Wellbelove finally speaks.

“Oh, are we having a party? I wish you’d said, I don’t really want to drink tonight.”

Snow and Bunce turn and raise their eyebrows at her, and I remember that they weren’t invited to the Halloween maffia meeting.

“Snow has something to show us,” I whisper as he ushers us inside.

“Something to show us in…” Dev looks around, “Malcolm’s dining room?”

“It looks like my father’s dining room to you?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. I never expected that one.

“Doesn’t it look like it to you?”

“Baz, do the thing,” Snow says, staring up at the hare on the ceiling that I know only he and I can currently see.

“We’re in the Watford nursery,” I announce to the group. I didn’t really want to share this so widely. I didn’t want it to be everyone’s secret. I had kind of just wanted to share it with Snow alone, but I suppose my first mistake was in thinking that Snow wouldn’t explode my plans, just because he can. “The room takes on the backdrop of a childhood memory, but it’s actually the nursery.”

The group blinks several times, and I can see realisation wash over everyone as they stare into the newly revealed room.

“Is this what you wanted to show us?” Bunce asks, and Snow huffs.

“No,” he says emphatically. “And I only wanted to show Baz.”

Niall looks sideways at me and my cheeks heat.

“I wanted to show you this,” Snow says, looking directly at me and pointing up at the ceiling. “The bunny will talk to you.”

“It’s a hare,” I correct before his words catch up with me. “Wait, what?”

“Look!” he says, practically bouncing on his feet like an over-excited golden retriever. He clears his throat and looks up. “Hey bunny, when was Watford founded?”

The mural on the ceiling shifts and the large white hare beings to run in a circle around it’s portrait until it splits off into six different, distinct hares. One leaps down from the ceiling and lands on the floor with a soft thud. Everyone jumps back, but the hare simply blinks up at Snow, its black, beady eyes wide as it opens its mouth.

“ _Watford School of Magicks was founded in 986,_ ” the hare says in a wheezy voice. “ _The initial structure served as a full-service Mage village, the first communal gathering of Mages in all of Britain, and the first building constructed was the White Chapel. The architect is unknown, though the design is often credited to—”_

“Okay bunny, thank you!” Snow says, and the hare shuts up, then blinks again.

“ _If you wish to ask another question, you have four educational opportunities remaining for today.”_

Everyone in the circle stares at the hare, and Snow shrugs.

“I think we’re okay for now, bunny, thank you. Though, er — does anyone else want to ask a question?”

“How did you discover this?” Bunce asks, pushing forward to look at the hare. She reaches out to pat it, but her hand disappears within the hare in a glimmer of gold sparks and magic.

“I was just lying here, thinking about things,” Snow says, and his ears turn suspiciously pink. “And I asked a question out loud to the bunny. Just, you know, talking, I didn’t expect it to answer. But — well, yeah. I’ve no idea what it is, though.”

“It’s the teaching hare,” I say, and everyone’s eyes land on me. I clear my throat and try to look disinterested, like old buried — possibly removed — memories aren’t suddenly coming back to me. “It’s part of the nursery. Its job is to teach things. When kids get curious, they can talk to the hare and ask it questions about things.”

“Anything?” Bunce asks. I shrug.

“I don’t know. I’m sure there’s some kind of limitation on it’s knowledge.”

“I’ve never heard of this before,” Dev says, crouching to inspect the hare as well. “This is incredibly useful magic. Why isn’t it located in the library or someplace we can use it?”

“I suppose it got sealed off along with the room and everyone just forgot about it.”

Snow nods eagerly and turns his bright eyes on me.

“I thought we could ask it about the mystery,” he says, just to me, like we’re in on some secret, like we’re working a case together. I smile despite myself. He’s been thinking about it, then. He’s been thinking about that night here, with just he and I.

He’s been thinking of me.

“What mystery?” Wellbelove asks. She’s let go of my arm, thank Merlin, but she looks incredibly overwhelmed by everything that’s happening, like she’s struggling to keep up.

Snow looks at me and motions at the hare in a gesture of invitation, and I clear my throat.

“Hare,” I start, and the rabbit turns to blink up at me. Its snow white fur shimmers with the soft glow of magic, and it appears to be quivering in anticipation. “Why did the nursery camouflage itself?”

The hare blinks again.

“ _To protect what it has seen.”_

The room is so silent a pin could drop. My voice seems to have failed me. Everyone is watching, waiting. Niall shifts a bit, so his shoulder is pressing into mine, his warmth slowly spreading to my body. I want to smile at him, to give him some sign of appreciation, but my eyes are locked on Snow’s, across the circle from me.

He seems to know that I’ve been stunned into silence, because he asks the question I can’t get out.

“What has it seen?”

There’s motion above us as the other five rabbits begin running in a circle around their mural, and then they begin to drop to the floor, one at a time. Wellbelove gives a little shriek and jumps back, but the hares pay her no mind, continuing their endless sprint, round and round, chasing each other’s tails until the air in the middle of the circle they’re running begins to shimmer, and an image comes into view.

Sitting on the floor of the nursery, legs in the air, talking to one of these shimmery rabbits is… me.

Five year old me. My skin a golden red and my cheeks chubby. My dark hair is mussed and sticking in all directions, my blue dungarees just slightly too big on me. The room around me is bright — it’s daylight — and an elderly woman bustles past me with a baby in her arms.

“Basilton,” the woman says in a nasally voice, “this is your last question for today, then you need to share the hare.”

“Yes, Mistress Mary,” comes my small, childlike voice. I don’t remember any of this. All of this — this entire day — is completely ripped from my memory, just blank space where trauma should be.

I watch as young-me turns back to the hare, my face scrunched in concentration, like deciding my last question is of the utmost importance. But the question never comes. Behind me, there’s a loud crash as the door to the nursery slams open, and then screams from the children around me as six grey-skinned men burst into the room.

They’re ragged looking. Their skin is sallow, their clothes hang off of them. I’ve never seen another vampire before, other than myself, but I look nothing like them, aside from the skin tone. These things look like _animals._

“Basilton, take James and go to the crib room and don’t come out until you are told!” Mistress Mary yells, pushing past me, her wand aloft. I watch as my younger self bustles toward a crib — presumably where this James is — but I falter when the door opens again and my mother comes striding into the room.

My breath feels knocked from my body as I look her up and down. I’ve seen photos of her before, and I have fleeting memories, but nothing like this. Never anything so concrete.

Her skin is a darker gold than mine is, but her hair is the same colour. Thick and black, spilling down her back in heavy ringlets. Her brows are thick, her eyes are lidded, and she looks so much like Fiona it hurts. She’s wearing grey wool trousers and a smart black jumper, and her wand is in one hand, her other hand already spinning up a trail of fire.

“Leave,” she orders, her voice cracking through the room. I’ve never heard it before — not that I fully remember. It’s low and echoing. Fiona’s voice is kind of high pitched, and I just assumed they’d sound the same.

The vampires turn on her, and I watch her grey eyes scan them over.

“Did Nico send you?” she asks, her back rigid. “He should have known better. Leave now, and I won’t kill you.”

Behind the vampires, five year-old me is slowly creeping toward a crib. I want to reach out, to yell at myself, to tell myself to run, to turn around and get out of the room, but I know this is just a memory.

“We don’t answer to Nico,” spits one of the vampires in a heavy Northern accent. “Nico is a weak, broken half-mage. No one answers to Nico.”

“Very well then,” my mother says, and the strange calm that came over the room breaks. My mother sends a pillar of fire at the vampire closest to me, and the others scatter as he goes up in flames. Four of them rush my mother and one manages to grab her from behind, just as the fifth darts out toward me and grabs me by the back of my neck, hauling me up with my dungarees as if I weigh nothing.

I don’t remember the actual event, but I know what’s about to happen, and with a shuddering jolt I remember that I’m not watching this alone. There are five other people in the room with me, and at least four of them don’t know I’m a vampire.

“That will be all, hare,” I say, my voice cutting through the image just as my mother’s scream ricochets through the vision.

The hares stop running, the memory fades in a glimmer of small sparks, and the nursery is left in silence.

Everyone is staring at me.

“Baz,” Snow starts, but his voice trails off. Beside me, Niall lifts his hand and puts it heavily on my shoulder and squeezes.

His touch is too much, and I turn away from the group, toward him, and, ignoring the presence of everyone else in the room, lean slightly—barely—into him. I’m still ramrod straight, but one of his arms comes across my back and holds me there, a forced and much needed hug. There’s a soft touch on my right side and then suddenly there’s another, lighter arm wrapping around my back, and Agatha’s blonde hair is nestling into my shoulder, and I’m caught in a strange half-hug between her and Niall.

I break it after a few mere seconds, straightening up and stepping away. I refuse to look weak right now. I refuse to fall apart.

“Hare,” Bunce says quietly, and I look up at her. She’s crouched in front of the hare. The others have returned to the ceiling now. “Hare, why did the room need to protect that?”

“ _Because it was told to,_ ” the hare wheezes.

“By who?” Snow asks.

“ _The headmaster_.”

Bunce huffs in exasperation.

“That doesn’t tell us _which_ headmaster. There was Headmistress Pitch and then a temporary headmaster who served just before the Mage was elected. There are three people it could have been,” she says, a pinched look on her face.

“Hare, who is Nico?” I ask. Everyone looks at me, and I’m glad that my voice isn’t wavering. I feel like my entire inside is made of mush, like one stiff wind will knock me down.

“ _You have used all your educational opportunities for today,”_ the hare responds, and my stomach plummets. What’s the use of an all-knowing bunny that only answers six questions a day?

I suppose it would have been a lot to expect the hare to just tell me that kind of information off the cuff. But I had to ask. I’ve never heard of a Nico before. What did they mean by a “weak half-mage?” Why would my mother think that vampires were answering to this Nico? Why was that her first thought?

We always assumed that the Humdrum sent the vampires, just like it’s sent all the other dark creatures that attack Watford. But those vampires didn’t look crazed or out of control. They seemed calculating. Like they were there of their own volition. And my mother thought someone specific had sent them.

Which means that possibly, the Humdrum didn’t kill my mother.

Which means that possibly, my mother was murdered.

And her killer may be out there.

 

***

 

“Do you think Simon would lose his mind if I dyed my hair pink?”

“Yes,” I answer wearily, not looking up from the large, bound copy of _The Record_ that I’m going through. I’m looking for any mention of a Nico that I can find, but thus far I’ve had absolutely no luck. I don’t even know where to begin. I thought a newspaper like _The Record_ would have something, but there’s too many questions that need answering before I can even start.

Who is Nico? Why did the vampires seem so calm? Why did the headmaster seal off the room? Were they talking about the Mage? If so, does that mean the Mage knows something about my mother’s death?

I wish I could ask Bunce for help, but I’d probably have to barter my soul and I’m not sure if I even have a soul to barter with.

I’ve been a bit of a man possessed, ever since that night in the nursery, with only one goal in mind: find Nico.

Well, and not think about what I saw. That’s a secondary goal.

I’m failing at that a bit. Especially when I’m asleep.

“I shouldn’t have to determine my appearance based on a man’s preferences, though.” Wellbelove retorts, snapping me back to the world’s most unimportant discussion.

“Alright, Bunce,” I respond, barely paying attention. Maybe Niall could sneak back into the Mage’s office and poke around. Or maybe I could go back and ask the hare more questions.

But if I do that, I’ll end up watching the full scene, from the beginning to the end, and I don’t think I want to do that. Not yet. I’m not ready to watch the full event.

“I just don’t want to feel pressured to be his perfect golden girlfriend,” Wellbelove says, sighing. “I wish we could just be Simon and Agatha. Not The Chosen One and his Prize.”

I slam _The Record_ closed with a heavy thud and look up at her. I love Wellbelove. Truly. But I’m sick of hearing about her boyfriend problems, especially where there is so much going on that is so much more important.

“Is Snow the one pressuring you, or is it the general idea of your relationship that feels like a pressure?” I ask.

Wellbelove blinks.

“He—” she stops, and I don’t wait for her to continue.

“You haven’t been together a year and you seem miserable. Why date him if you don’t want to be in this relationship? No one is forcing you to be. You don’t have to do things just because they’re expected of you.”

“I—” she starts, then closes her mouth. A brief flash of guilt travels through me. I’m being snippier than I mean to be, but this isn’t what I want to be talking about. I want Wellbelove to be happy, and I want Snow to be happy (preferably with me) and I don’t want to listen to her list off everything she hates about this situation of her own creation. She’s so stupidly lucky to have him, to have everything that she has.

But then again, I think she knows that. And I think that’s why she refuses to let go.

“Look,” I start, rubbing at my forehead. My hair is getting far too long and it’s become a hassle to keep it out of the way. “I need some air. I’ll text you later?”

Her brown eyes lose their cloudy haze, and she snaps out of whatever thought spiral she’s been following.

“Are you alright?” she asks softly, reaching across for me. Her fringe falls in her eyes. She chopped her hair into some shaggy mess at Christmas, and it’s starting to grow out spikey. “You haven’t spoken to anyone about what we saw in the nursery. You know you can talk to me, right?”

I look her over. I know I could. I think I could. She gets caught up in herself a lot, but I know that if I just opened up and asked, she’d direct all her focus and energy on me and my problems.

But I really, really don’t want that.

“Of course I’m alright,” I respond with a stiff nod. “I’m always alright. See you, Ags.”

When I emerge into the cold February air I gulp it down. For someone who is permanently cold, I feel like I’m constantly on fire lately, burning up inside with anxiety and unanswered questions. I haven’t felt this unsettled in ages. I want answers, and I want the truth, and if I’m being truly, hideously honest with myself, I want a hug.

Maybe I’ll find Niall. He told me that he wasn’t leaving his room at all today, because it’s a Saturday and Dev’s girlfriend isn’t available to Skype, and he’s determined to stay in his bed and catch up all the television he’s been missing. But I bet I could probably convince him to pay attention to me. I’m good at manipulating people.

I’ve just made up my mind to hunt him down when I see Dev hurrying toward me, bundled up against the weather.

“Baz!” he calls, waving me over to where he’s standing near the gated entrance. I frown and veer my course toward him, and he gives me a tight grin. “Looks like you have some visitors.”

I squint toward the gate, which is opening slowly to allow a dark Jaguar through. My stomach flips slightly. I know that car.

I round on Dev.

“Did you know he was coming?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you tell him to come?”

Dev smiles lightly, and then gives an aristocratic sniff. He looks like a twat.

“Why would I tell your father to come visit you? Why would I care?”

The Jaguar stops in the gravel driveway and the passenger door opens, and a small shape comes tumbling out, half falling onto the gravel in its eagerness, and then it’s up, dusting off a bright pink duffle coat and barrelling toward me.

“Basil!” Mordelia shrieks, and a heavy weight crashes into me and almost sends me flying.

“Mordelia, what did we _just_ talk about?” comes Malcolm’s tired voice as he emerges from the Jag. He strides over and shakes Dev’s hand, then clasps my shoulder in a manly display of affection.

“Basil doesn’t care if I’m rude,” Mordelia retorts, and I scruff at her hair as she hugs my leg even tighter. This has caught me extremely unawares, and I’m fighting the urge to lean down and give my little sister a bone crunching hug.

“Basil does indeed care if you are rude, little punk,” I say, prying her from my legs instead and looking up at my father. “Malcolm. To what do I owe this honour.”

Malcolm shifts slightly and looks at Dev. I wonder what Dev said to get him here. _Baz is having a meltdown because he almost watched his mother be murdered. Baz just had to watch the memories that were almost definitely magically extracted. Baz is realising that his mother was murdered. Baz isn’t really talking to any of his friends, and has become obsessed with finding someone named Nico. Baz is falling apart._

I feel deep, bottomless shame just thinking about it.

“Mordelia wanted to see you,” Malcolm says, and I’m immensely relieved that he’s chosen to avoid the topic altogether and therefore preserve both of our dignities by acting like he’s not doing something motivated by fatherly affection. “I thought we’d come visit and take you and Devlin to lunch. You’re also welcome to invite… Niall…” my father says, his face pinched as he trails off, and I look up at him sharply.

There’s something in his tone that seems deeply, deeply uncomfortable with the mention of Niall, but there’s no possible way he knows. Dev doesn’t even know. No one knows. Unless…

Unless he thinks Niall is the reason I came out.

“No,” I say, shaking my head quickly in an effort to firmly dispel this thought from my father’s head. “Just family sounds nice. Let’s make it a Grimm outing, shall we?”

Malcolm smiles wider than I’ve seen in years.

We all cram ourselves into the Jag (Mordelia somehow gets shotgun, which seems both  unfair and mildly illegal) and Malcolm drives us into the village and to a pub of all places for lunch. I have the distinct horror of watching my little sister destroy her fish n’ chips, and I pick at her meal along with her, stealing half her chips and a few bites of fish. I have to keep her from dumping a whole bottle of malt vinegar on our meal. Malcolm doesn’t say a word, but Dev does raise an eyebrow.

We talk about nonsense for most of the meal. Mordelia drives the conversation, telling me about a girl at school who she hates, and Malcolm and Dev get stuck in a long conversation bitching about Dev’s mum, who appears to be in some feud with Daphne over flower displays for a charity event.

It’s pleasant and mindless and an excellent distraction, until Dev gets up to use the washroom and Malcolm clears his throat.

“Basilton,” he starts, and my eyes snap up from the picture Mordelia has been doodling. “I heard what happened. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

I squint at Malcolm, and school my expression blank.

“I’m fine,” I answer, picking non-existent lint off my sleeve. “It all feels a bit removed. To be honest, I don’t remember any of it. You wouldn’t know why that is, would you?”

Malcolm has the decency to look away, and that one flick of his eyes confirms everything I’ve suspected for years.

“So she did wipe my memory, then,” I say. “And you knew.”

“I did,” Malcolm says, glancing at Mordelia, but she’s tuned us out. “She told me afterwards. I didn’t agree with it, you know. I never would have done it.”

“I’m not angry at her,” I interject, before he can squirm himself to death. “I appreciate not knowing, for so long. Everytime I close my eyes now, I see it, and—” I stop, close my eyes, take a breath, and restart. “I’m glad I didn’t grow up seeing that.”

Malcolm stares down at the table like he might disintegrate it. If he were Snow, he probably could.

“Good, then,” he says, then clears his throat. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

I’m not alright. I’m not close to alright, not in the same universe as alright, but I don’t correct him.

“Who is Nico?” I ask instead. He stiffens.

“What?”

“Nico,” I repeat. “Mum and the…” I lower my voice and glance at Mordelia, “intruders talked about a Nico. Who is he?”

Malcolm blinks.

“I don’t know.”

I stare him down.

“Truly,” Malcolm says. “No idea. Your mother had a lot of business I wasn’t involved in.” He pauses for a moment, takes a sip of his wine, and adjusts his tie. “Perhaps you should ask Fiona when you go home this summer. She and your mother were close. Natasha usually told her things. Maybe she’d know.”

Malcolm is hiding something from me. I can tell. He’s a shit liar. I may have inherited his severe widow’s peak and tall stature, but I got all my cunning from the Pitch side.

I’m about to challenge him, even with Mordelia around, when Dev slides into the booth next to me.

“I swear to Morgana, there’s a bloke in the bathroom who looks like he could be a goblin,” Dev announces happily.

“Does he have green skin or is he just exceptionally fit?”

Malcolm chokes on his wine, but Dev grins.

“What?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Snow says that goblins are supposed to be blindingly attractive, apparently. Won’t shut up about how fit they are.”

“Snow thinks goblins are fit?” Dev asks with a laugh, while Malcolm looks as though he wants to rocket himself to the moon. “Merlin, sounds like you’re rubbing off on him. You and Niall. Did you know the other day he told me that Craig Stainton in the eighth year has nice hands? What the hell does that mean?”

I’m fairly certain that Craig Stainton is the gay eighth year with the weed. He does have nice hands.

“Are you talking about how Basil is gay?” Mordelia asks, and Malcolm’s wine comes spitting out of his mouth in an extremely unsophisticated display of horror.

“Little punk, you don’t even know what that means,” I say, smoothly cutting across my father’s humiliation.

“It means we can’t talk about it but we have to be nice about it, and just hope you pick someone with some class,” Mordelia says, clearly echoing something she’s heard an adult say. I don’t dwell on this though, because Malcolm looks close to offing himself. But bless him, he’s considering suicide quietly. He really is trying to be supportive.

“Yes, I suppose that is the general definition,” I say, giving my father a pass and reaching across the table to ruffle Mordelia’s hair. “Now, do you think you have space for ice cream?”

Malcolm looks like he may hug me.

Many bowls of ice cream and a horrifyingly tight hug from Mordelia later, Malcolm deposits us back at the gates of Watford and waves us off, and I hate the fact that I do actually feel better.

I knock Dev on the shoulder as we start the trek back to the dorm.

“You’re a prick for inviting him behind my back.”

Dev just puts his hands in his pocket and sniffs.

“It’s like you think I’m not allowed to talk to my uncle and seek out his company. The world doesn’t always revolve around you, Tyrannus.”

I blanche.

“Thank you,” I say, and Dev knocks my shoulder in turn. He’s a good sort, and I feel bad, because I’ve been so wrapped up in Snow and Niall all year that I feel like we’ve barely spent any time together. Part of that is his fault — he’s always talking with his girlfriend. But still.

“How is Olivia?” I ask, not because I care, but because he’s done something kind for me and the polite thing is to be kind in return.

He stares at the ground and kicks a heavy stone out of our path.

“Uh, good, then?”

Dev shoves his hands in his pockets and blows out a long stream of air. It hangs in front of us for a moment.

“It’s nice that Malcolm is so supportive of you… you know,” he says, and I raise an eyebrow.

“If being silently passive aggressive about it is supportive, then sure,” I respond, confused at this change of subject.

“I just mean, he doesn’t love it but he’s still not giving you shit, even if it means you might not pass on the name and magic and all that. I don’t think my parents will be that understanding.”

I literally stop walking. There’s no fucking way.

“Dev, are you—” I stop. No way. We can’t _both_ be the token gay cousin. “Is Olivia—”

“You can’t tell Niall,” he says quickly, “he wouldn’t get it.”

A laugh bursts out of me. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

“I think he’d get it fine, mate. Crowley. Trust me, he’ll be extremely fine with you being gay, you’ve no idea how fine he’ll be with it.”

“What?” Dev says, his eyes going wide. “What? No! I’m not— I’m not _gay._ I mean, not that there anything wrong with it. I just don’t think I — no. What? Why did you think that?”

I stare at him.

“Okay let’s walk this back, shall we? What is it about Olivia your parents wouldn’t approve of?”

Dev goes full on red and mumbles something I would never be able to understand if I weren’t a vampire.

“Olivia is Normal,” he whispers. “She’s not a Mage. Has no idea.”

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” I snap, shoving my hands back into my pockets and continuing to walk. I never curse like a Normal, but sometimes it pops out, and this seems like a fitting situation. Dev looks offended. “That’s the big secret? You’re dating a Normal? I thought you were coming out.”

“It’s a big deal! I’m a Grimm! I can’t be with a Normal. Old Families don’t do that.”

“Dev, do you have any idea how many Normals Fiona has dated? She’s a Pitch, too, which is a bit more important,” I say. I feel almost manic. Hysterical. Why is everyone in my life so fucking ridiculous? “I won’t tell anyone, but really. It’s not the end of the world. If she’s who you want to be with, you just have to fight for that right.”

“But… we have to preserve the magic.”

“Ask Snow to spit on her or something. He’s got enough excess he could probably infect her.”

“So you’re really okay with this? You don’t think I’m mental?”

“Oh, I do,” I say, shoving my hands deeper in my coat. I’m annoyed at this conversation a bit, and I can’t fully express why. Maybe because for a moment I saw a brief possibility wherein Niall could get the happy ending I’ll never have. Maybe it’s because Dev is being a classist twat. Who knows.

“Look, I’m not one to talk. I think you’re obsessed with her a bit, and you’ve been ditching your friends for her — especially Niall — which isn’t brilliant. But I don’t care that she’s Normal. If she makes you happy, I’m proud of you for having an open mind.”

“I just… I’ve never heard of a Mage doing it before. Dating outside magic.”

“Fiona,” I remind him. “And Wellbelove as well. Before Snow, she had a Normal boyfriend. Sacha. Real horsey type apparently. But that’s a secret, actually, so don’t spread it around.”

“Wellbelove, really? But she’s so posh,” Dev says, wide eyed.

I should probably feel bad for letting out all her secrets. But...

“She doesn’t care that much about magic, to be honest. Sometimes I think she’d be happier without it.”

Dev is quiet for a long time, and then he nods.

“Yeah…” he says, holding open the door of Mummers for me. “Sometimes I think about that too.”

 

***

 

 **AW** : SOS. help. I really messed up.

I blink wearily at my phone. It’s almost midnight. Why the hell is Wellbelove texting me and waking me up?

I sit up in bed groggily and squint across the room at Snow’s bed, trying to not wake him, but he’s not there. His bed is still messy and unmade from earlier.

 

 **BP** : _Why are you texting me so late?_

 **AW** : I left Simon a note telling him to meet me outside, right? I wanted to talk.

 **AW** : I was going to break up with him.

 **AW** : But I don’t think I can do it. My roommate is still awake and she’s a snitch and I’ve lost my courage and I didn’t realise I’d get stuck out there all night with him.

 **AW** : What do I do?

 

My face feels slightly numb, and I blink. What does she _do_?

She planned to break up with the Chosen One, and instead she’s left him locked outside the wall all night in the cold.

I like Wellbelove, but this is awful.

 

 **BP** : _Is this because of what I said?_

 **BP** : _Because I didn’t mean you should break up with him in the middle of the night._

 **BP** : _And I definitely didn’t suggest you involve me in it._

 **AW** : It’s been coming. I’ve been wanting to. You just gave me a push I guess?

 **AW** : But now I’m freaking out. What if he gets upset and blows something up and takes me with it?

 **AW** : Baz what do I do???

 

If I weren’t so exhausted currently I’d be rolling my eyes. Snow never does that. When he goes off, he always manages to shield the people around him. Sure, it leaves you feeling a little fried, but he always makes sure you survive, somehow. Doesn’t Wellbelove know anything about her boyfriend?

Or rather, soon to be ex-boyfriend.

I hate that I’m both thrilled at the idea of him being single and sick at the thought of him being upset.

 

 **BP** : _I’ll take care of it._

 **AW** : Thank you so much, you’re the absolute best, I love you so much and I so, so owe you

 

I roll out of bed and dress quickly, putting on an extra jumper for warmth, and creep out of the room. I really shouldn’t be doing this. The bridge is up, and even though it’s easy enough to get down the ramparts, I won’t be able to get back up. Snow and I will be stuck out there all night, unless I can piss him off enough to blow a hole in the wall and let us in.

It’s a short walk up the ramparts, and even quicker to **_float like a butterfly!_ ** down across the moat until I land safely on the other side. Wellbelove didn’t tell me where Snow would be, but I’m sure I’ll be able to smell his magic a mile off.

Turns out I don’t need to, because I hear him before I smell him.

“Ouch! Little bugger, stop it!”

Across the pitch, just under the Yew tree, I can clearly see Snow hunched with his arms over his head as chestnuts fly from the trees and pelt him around the head.

“Ow! Stop it! I’m not—” One of the chestnuts collides with his forehead and he flinches. “Ouch!”

“Waging war?” I call, shoving my freezing hands in the pockets of my jacket and strolling forward. Upon closer inspection, it appears that the chestnuts were being lobbed by snow devils. Aleister fucking Crowley. No wonder it’s so cold outside.

“What are you doing here?” Snow asks, straightening up, his brows furrowed. A chestnut hits him in the cheek and he flinches.

“Fancied a walk,” I say with a shrug. “Got locked out. Why are you fighting with snow devils?”

“They started it,” he says petulantly, and one of the snowball-esque creatures up in the tree cackles. “I was supposed to meet Aggie, but she didn’t show, and….” he trails off then squints. “I don’t believe you got locked out. You were asleep when I left the room. Did you follow me?”

I could tell him the truth — that Wellbelove got held up by her roommate, that I came out here, prepared to spend a night in the cold, just so he wouldn’t have to be alone and wondering why he got ditched. But I don’t want him to know that I care. And I don’t particularly want to absolve Wellbelove of her sins.

“Not everything revolves around you,” I say dismissively, pulling my hands out of my pockets and rubbing them together. I generate a small amount of friction, then light a fire in my palm. “Crowley, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

“Tell me about it,” he glowers. “My warming spell won’t work. I have no idea why Aggie wanted to meet out here. I thought maybe….” he flushes, and I don’t even want to know where his mind just went. “Well, yeah.”

“Ah yes, a lover’s tryst in late March. What a lovely opportunity to get frostbite on your dick.”

Snow turns a deep purple shade that clashes horribly with his hair.

“What the fuck, Baz?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why are you even out here?”

“Took a walk. Got locked out,” I repeat slowly, dragging out each word like he’s an idiot.

“By taking a walk you mean you were killing Bambi’s mother, huh?”

My eyes narrow and a jolt kicks through my stomach. He hasn’t mentioned the vampire thing in ages, and he’s stopped wearing his cross, so I just assumed that he had decided that it was all a figment of his imagination.

“Don’t tell me we’re doing this again. I’m not a fan of reruns,” I snap, holding my fire away from him.

“Just because I dropped it doesn’t mean I forgot. And then seeing that memory…” he trails off and brushes closer to me and the fire. “I’m sorry, by the way. About your mum.”

“I’ve come to terms with it,” I lie. Snow shrugs.

“Still. She was your mum. Any news on who Nico is?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“What makes you think I’m searching?”

Snow just stares back, his gaze level. A snow devil spits on him, and several flakes of snow float down to land in his eyelashes.

“I looked through _The Record_ , but couldn’t find anything on them. Just details about the attack, which we already knew. The only Nico I can think of is the singer, but I doubt she’s involved, though it would be wicked if she were. You know, I’ve had _These Days_ stuck in my head for weeks because of it.”

Merlin, I hate how much I love this boy.

“Why were you researching this on your own?”

“Like you said, I like mysteries,” he says, shrugging. He rubs his hands together for warmth. “And also… I dunno. I know you’re looking into it, even if you pretend you aren’t. I’d like to help.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend,” he says, confused. His head is tilted to an angle and his eyebrows are furrowed. “And that’s what friends do.”

“When did we become friends?” I ask, my voice sounding indignant and stroppy, even to my own ears. “I don’t remember signing that contract. There’s been no cease fire.”

Snow rolls his eyes and blows on his hands. He’s losing patience, I can tell. And I don’t overly blame him. It’s fucking cold out here.

“Right, okay, sure. We’re still enemies then, just enemies who’ve stopped trying to kill each other and sometimes share food.”

“That was once,” I sniff, horrified that Snow is using the time last week when I offered him a bag of Walkers as justification to be involved in my life.

“You don’t have to take my help,” he says, getting huffy. “I’m just saying, it’s there if you want it.”

“And what, in turn am I supposed to offer to off the Humdrum?”

Snow makes a face and shakes his head.

“No, that’s my job.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head. My question seems to have caught him entirely off guard, and he stops doing his little side to side hops.

“What?”

It’s a question Fiona asks me all the time, when I’m lighting something on fire or being difficult or doing something dumb. Why?

“Why is that your job?” I repeat, staring at him. “You’re only sixteen. Shouldn’t that be the Mage’s issue?”

“I’m the Chosen One,” he says, as if this should explain everything. “The Humdrum picked me.”

“Did he? It seems like it’s just picking on you because you have power. Why does that mean you have to go along with it? Why do you have to fight him?”

“Because someone has to,” Snow says, getting angry. “And I can.”

“Well,” I say, shivering slightly. I want to send the flame up my arm and curling around my neck, but I’m jittery and tired and not on my best game right now, and I probably shouldn’t risk self-immolation. “No one ever said you had to do it alone.”

“Are you offering?”

“No, of course not,” I snap back. “That’s what Bunce is for. And Wellbelove.”

All of Snow’s bad mood comes thundering back, and the green tang of smoke begins to waft off of him.

“I think Aggie was coming to break up with me,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at a chestnut on the ground. One of the snow devils lobs another at him, but he manages to duck it.

I don’t really know what to say to his astute observation, so I don’t say anything.

“I know it’s coming, I can tell. I wish she’d just get it over with instead of stringing me along waiting for it. And I wish she hadn’t gotten me locked outside because of it.”

I wish she hadn’t gotten me locked outside either.

“Snow,” I say carefully, not wanting to sound even remotely sympathetic. “If we got you really pissed off, what are the odds you could get the drawbridge to come down?”

He considers it, then shrugs.

“I might take down the whole ramparts,” he admits.

“I’m willing to risk it,” I say, shaking slightly. “If you get that drawbridge down, I’ll go into the kitchens and get us tea.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’ve got a key,” he says, then pauses meaningfully. “For your low blood sugar.”

“Exactly,” I respond, turning the collar of my jacket up to beat back the wind. “Now. Go blow up that drawbridge.”

Snow rubs his hands together several times, squares his jaw, and nods.

“Right,” he agrees. “Go on, then. Insult me or something. I’m too cold to be angry right now.”

“Your hair looks like pubes,” I say, blowing on my fingers, and Snow looks up at me, horrified.

“I didn’t mean that insulting!”

But he’s turnt away from me, his eyes screwed up, his wand outstretched, and I can feel the magic in the air tingling — heavy, with a sharp smell, but playing along my skin in a friendly way as it races toward Snow — and I prepare myself for the inevitable blast.

 

***

 

“You smell worse than the skanks,” I say, wrinkling my nose at Dev and Niall. Dev grins sheepishly and wipes a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead.

He’s caked in mud. We all are, actually, but Dev has it worst because he’s the goalie, and although everyone got soaked in mud during practise, Dev took several face dives into it.

“I think I have mud in my ass,” he admits quietly, and Niall lets out a bark of laughter.

“You can get first dibs shower then,” Niall says, knocking Dev’s shoulder, and Dev shoots him a small smile.

Niall watches that smile a beat too long.

“Thanks,” Dev says, shifting his duffel bag to the other shoulder as we enter Mummers. “I told Olivia I would Skype her and I’m running behind schedule.”

Niall’s face falls.

“Niall, didn’t you want that book?” I interject, cutting over the awkwardness. Niall blinks at me. “Why don’t you just come up to my room and get it, since you have to wait to shower anyway.”

Niall’s unease melts away with a relieved smile, and he nods eagerly.

“Right, that would be brilliant,” he says, and we wave Dev off at their first floor room and continue up.

“Snow is at a study session with Bunce for the rest of the day,” I say quietly, unlocking my door. As soon as the words are out I realise how they sound, but if I’m being fully honest, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for an opportunity to be alone with Niall for a bit.

This thing between us, whatever it is, is awkward and not very constant, but it is nice. We haven’t done much, just kissed a handful of times. It doesn’t go very far, and we don’t do it every time we’re alone, but sometimes, when it’s just us, Niall will lean against me, or I’ll prop my book up on his back while he studies, and we just share our space for awhile.

And it’s nice.

Once in the room I kick off my shoes and drop my duffle to the floor.

“Stay as long as you want,” I tell him, digging my mobile out of my desk and throwing it to him. “Pick some music, I’m going to shower real fast.”

I rush through my shower — even though I’d usually linger over it, after a practise like that — and change into my lounge pants quickly, barely stopping to drag a towel through my hair before I exit the bathroom. Niall is sitting on my chair, covered in mud, carefully not touching anything around him. He looks singularly unhappy.

“Shower is yours, if you want. You can borrow some of my things,” I say, throwing the towel over the edge of my bed and sinking down into the soft mattress.

“Really?” he asks, exhaling in a great whoop of relief. “Oh, that would be brilliant, thank you.”

“Yeah, take whatever you want. Towels under the sink.”

“Which shampoo is yours?”

I fix him with a level glare.

“Right, right, that’ll be obvious,” he says, grinning widely before he disappears into the en suite. He’d chosen The Arctic Monkeys — which I only have in my library because of his obsession — and the discordant sound of _Fluorescent Adolescent_ plays quietly. The shower turns on and a moment later the room fills with steam, because Niall doesn’t know that our bathroom door is sticky and doesn’t close fully unless you press it just so, and soon everything is warm and heady and I’m so _tired_ that I can barely keep my eyes open.

Tossing my book to the side, I lay back on my bed. I’ll only lie here for a moment for a moment. I’ll get up and study once Niall gets out of the shower. But suddenly my eyes are blinking open into a quiet room, and Niall is smiling sheepishly at me from the edge of the bed.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I was trying to sneak out quietly. I’ll go back to my room so you can sleep.”

“Nonsense,” I yawn, patting the space next to me. “Grab your books, you can study. I’m not sleeping.”

“Yeah, you look extremely awake,” he says, picking up the Greek textbook I just discarded to the floor and pads over to my bed. He’s wearing a pair of my training trackies, a hoodie that might actually be Snow’s, and my socks.

“Move over a bit,” he whispers, poking me in the side, and I roll over with a small groan, burying my face in the pillow as Niall’s weight settles on the mattress next to me.

“Give me five and I’ll quiz you on Greek,” I mumble.

“Yeah, alright then,” he says, patting at my head gently, and I sigh. It feels good, like when Snow was massaging my head. I roll back over, so Niall has access to the other side of my head, and I press my forehead into his side.

He’s definitely wearing Snow’s hoodie. It smells like him.

This is strange, and wrong, and feels inherently dishonest in some way, but I press my face closer to Niall’s stomach, breathing in the smell of Snow’s magic and feeling the warmth of another body next to me, and close my eyes. Niall’s hand curls around my hair and he twirls strands through his fingers. I move my arms so that they’re both wrapped around his waist, and then I fall asleep.

I wake to the sound of something hitting the floor.

The room is darker. It’s clearly been several hours since I fell asleep, and there’s a heavy, tingling weight on my arm as I blink awake into the grey haze of the evening light that’s filled the room. Niall is asleep next to me, sprawled across the bed, his head resting against my arm and my hand curled around his shoulder. His hair has dried into a fluffy, curled mess.

Snow is standing in the doorway, staring.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, turning around in circles and trying to pick up the books he had knocked off my desk. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t—” he knocks something else off the desk and trips over the chair. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Snow, it’s fine,” I croak out. Niall stirs beside me and I can hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Snow turns around and faces the wall, as if he’s protecting our privacy or we’re doing something indecent, and stares up at the ceiling.

“I just need to get my bag and then I’ll leave,” he says, far, far too loudly.

“Snow, it’s fine, you don’t have to turn around,” I snap. My cheeks are flamingly red and I want to set myself on fire. Niall and I weren’t even _doing_ anything. We were just taking a nap together, and he’s acting like he walked in on us in the middle of sex.

Niall gets up from my bed quickly and shuffles around for his practise duffle, and I immediately miss his warmth. His face is red, and he grabs his things and pulls them to his chest as he dashes toward the door.

Snow turns around just in time to throw him a suspicious look, then—

“Are you wearing my hoodie?”

Niall pauses and looks down.

“Uh,” Niall says, his face getting even redder. “Oh, maybe. It was just there and I thought it was… Baz’s…” he trails off as Snow glares at him. “Here, hold on, I’ll—”

“Just take it,” Snow huffs, turning his head away quickly. “But next time don’t touch my shit.”

“Right,” Niall says haltingly. “Sorry.” He turns back to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I wave weakly, but Niall is already out the door.

Snow huffs and turns toward his desk, grabbing at his book so forcefully that he sends the mug holding his pens flying across the room.

I’m filled with an intense and sudden burst of anger.

Where does he get off acting annoyed and childish?

Niall and I weren’t doing anything wrong, and it was nice. Crowley, it was so nice to actually have someone there and have the warmth of someone next to me and to feel comfortable and wanted for once. To have my brain turn off and stop thinking about my mother and Nico and everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life ever.

And he managed to fucking ruin it with one look. I hate him. I hate him for ruining this and for making me feel anxious and tense and erasing the warm feelings I’d finally grasped at just moments before.

“Crowley, Snow, you don’t need to be so stroppy,” I snap. “It’s not like we were doing anything.”

Snow straightens up, his back rigid.

“Next time give me some warning, yeah?” he mutters, picking up his pens. “So I don’t walk in on you and your… _boyfriend_.”

He spits out the word so violently that I flinch.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snarl back, unconsciously tucking my knees up on the bed and hugging them. “Good to know how you’d react if he was, though. Never really pegged you for the homophobic sort.”

“I’m not homophobic!” he shouts, spinning. His eyes are wide and panicked.

“Could have fooled me,” I drawl, reaching over for my phone and flipping through imaginary text messages.

“I’m not homophobic! I don’t care if you have a boyfriend, I just…” he fumbles on his words and deflates. “I just didn’t know. That you and Niall were— well, I mean, I had thought maybe...I just… We’re friends. I thought you’d tell me.”

“Niall and I aren’t dating,” I repeat, but more softly. He called us friends again. Snow thinks we’re friends, and he’s upset about finding Niall here because he wanted me to tell him first. I’ve melted immediately at this, but Snow’s eyebrows furrow, and his calm from the moment before evaporates.

“So what, you’re just sleeping together?”

The vitriol is back in his voice, and he sounds disgusted.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“You made it my business when I walked in on it! He made it my business when he started wearing my clothes!”

“Oh don’t be such a prude,” I snap. “He showered here after practise and we fell asleep. Nothing happened. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who nap together,” Snow says accusingly.

“You and Bunce nap together,” I spit back.

“It’s different!” he argues. “We don’t cuddle!”

A bitter laugh escapes me.

“Is that what this is about? Are you jealous? Crowley, Snow, do you want to cuddle? You just had to ask.”

He flushes pink from his neck to his ears, and I think for a gut wrenching moment that I might have just stumbled onto something.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, kicking off his shoes and sitting at his desk. “And change the music, I hate this band.”

I stare at him for a moment, because I know he’s lying. He’s never objected to the Arctic Monkeys before, and Niall plays them regularly when all three of us are in the room. But staring at the back of his neck isn’t giving me any answers, so I flop back on my pillow, scroll through my mobile, and turn on Fleetwood Mac. I don’t listen to them often, but they were one of my mum’s albums, so they used to get a heavy rotation.

As soon as _The Chain_ comes on, Snow’s shoulders relax almost immediately.

I collapse back in my bed, determined to just go back to sleep, and roll over with the hopes of suffocating myself with my pillow.

It smells like both Niall and Snow, and the combination of these two scents makes my chest physically ache.

I don’t know if I can keep doing this.

  


***

 

“Music,” Snow croaks, appearing in front of me. “Do you have your mobile? I need music.”

I blink up at him. He’s blocking out the sun, so he’s shrouded in a soft haze of light and the leaves from the tree I’m sitting under shade his face in dappled shadow.

“I was studying,” I tell him. “Look. There’s a book in my lap. That’s what we call reading.”

“Shut up,” he huffs, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and shifting from side to side. “Do you have music? Nothing sad, I need something distracting.”

“Why?” I ask, even as I pull my mobile and my headphones from my pocket. I can smell his magic coming off of him, and he reeks worse than usual.

“Aggie broke up with me,” he says, collapsing to the ground and taking my phone out of my hand. “I knew it was coming but it hit me harder than I thought it would, and I’m all jittery and, well, yeah sometimes music calms me down? Keeps me from going off. I don’t know. That probably doesn’t make sense, does it? But—”

“Just put on the music, Snow,” I snap, unwinding the headphones and handing them to him. He puts them in his ear and doesn’t even blink at me before pulling up my Spotify and scrolling through my music like he owns it.

A moment later I hear _Only The Good Die Young_ by Billy Joel streaming out of his headphones, and his shoulders relax, and he slumps back against the tree.

Aleister Crowley, he’s so fucking weird.

I want to say something to him. I want to try to make him feel better about his breakup, even though I’m kind of glad for it and I think it’s the best decision for both he and Wellbelove. But he looks so content, sitting here with his eyes closed and my music playing, that I don’t want to upset whatever fragile moment we’ve stumbled into.

Luckily, Dev and Niall do it for me.

They collapse on the grass in front of me in a heap. Niall looks keyed up, and Dev’s eyes are pink and slightly puffy, and they’re darting around everywhere, like he doesn’t want to look at anyone too long. Both of them ignore Snow, and he ignores them, which is for the best, I think, because the idea of the four of us sitting here and happily co-existing is too surreal to even contemplate.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, nudging Dev’s thigh with my foot.

“He and Olivia broke up,” Niall answers for him, catching my eye.

“You mean Olivia dumped him,” I correct, and Dev takes a long, stuttering breath.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine. Now all three of us are single again, yeah? I can spend more time with you lot.”

Niall and I make eye contact again, and I can almost see the happiness and guilt warring inside of Niall’s brain. It’s the same exact battle I’m facing right now.

“Snow has been shoved off as well,” I say, jerking my head toward Snow, who is still leaning against the tree with his eyes closed.

“Hey, thanks Baz, that’s so kind,” he mutters, opening his eyes and pulling one headphone out of his ear.

“Sorry to hear that,” Niall says, and sounds like he actually means it. “You alright?”

Snow shrugs and pulls at a blade of grass.

“Yeah, I guess. Knew it was coming, kinda,” he mutters, not looking at us. Dev makes a face that actually looks sympathetic.

“Is Wellbelove alright?” I ask before I can stop myself. Snow is the one who just got dumped, and I know I should be more sympathetic toward him, but Wellbelove is my friend as well, and I’m secretly blisteringly proud of her.

Snow snorts and rips a huge clump of sod out of the ground.

“Yeah, she’s fine. She and Penny were already making jokes about who gets you in the custody battle.”

“Agatha,” Dev, Niall and I all say at the same time.

“Wow, Baz,” Snow responds, blinking. “Don’t take time to think it over or anything.”

I shrug.

“You have Bunce, it’s only fair.”

“Well you have Niall. He’s almost as smart as Penny.”

Niall looks around, surprised and more than a little sunny at the comparison, but I ignore him.

“Fine, you can have Dev. He’ll make up for the class you’re losing along with Wellbelove. He’s free now, anyway.”

“Oi, can we not?” Dev objects. “Snow may be at the joking point, but I’m not. Some wounds are still fresh.”

“What happened?” Snow asks him, tilting his head. “She was French, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dev answers gloomily. “That’s kind of the problem. She said we were too far away, and maintaining a relationship with someone who doesn’t speak her language was too hard.”

“Oh. You should have let Baz teach you. He speaks French at me all the time.”

My face heats up as Niall makes eye contact for the third time.

“Oh really?” he asks, his tone light, his Irish accent just _too_ lilting. “And what does Baz say to you in French?”

I hate him. I fucking hate him, the Irish bastard. He’s an awful person. He’s a terrible kisser. He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.

“No idea,” Snow chirps. “Probably something shitty.”

“Tu es un putain d'idiot,” I say, and Snow glowers.

“Could you maybe stop showing off for five minutes?” he asks with a sigh, leaning over to rest his head against my shoulder and knock mine with his own. It’s a small, friendly gesture, but his head lingers just a fraction of a second too long, and I feel like I’m on fire, and Niall won’t stop fucking looking at me.

I hate him and I hate his stupid spelled eyes and I hate that he knows me so fucking well, and I hate that he’s sitting across from me, watching me fall apart, and sending me a small, knowing, understanding smile that communicates so much.

He clears his throat as Snow straightens up, and looks past us toward a group of eighth years kicking a football nearby.

“Do you think Craig Stainton is single?”

My eyes whip up, and I know immediately where this is going. My throat constricts with the full realisation of what Niall is about to do. And the fact that he’s doing it for me.

He really is the nicest person I’ve ever known.

Dev falls back onto the grass with a moan.

“Why do you keep going on about Craig Stainton?”

“Because he has nice hands, Dev,” I retort, and Niall grins.

“Yes but why do you care that he has nice hands?” Dev asks, turning his head to look at Niall and poking him gently in the thigh with his pinky.

“Because I’d like to date him?” Niall says.

There’s silence at these words and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing. Fucking Niall. He’s stealing a Dev move. Instead of just coming out and telling us something, Dev likes to just mention important things and act like they’ve always been an established fact, and then treat you like an idiot if you question it. Apparently Niall is stealing this tactic.

Not how I would have done it, but alright.

“Wait, you _are_ gay?” Snow bursts out. The question is directed at Niall but it’s me he turns his accusatory glare on.

“I’m bisexual,” Niall says, cool as anything. He leans back on his elbows, his spelled eyes calm and unblinking. I want to hug him. He’s fucking insane, and I want to hug him.

“I don’t know what that means,” Snow answers, his face scrunched up.

Dev has been silent, still laying in the grass, but now he exhales a great huff of air.

“It means he likes men and women,” he says in an extremely condescending tone, which makes it clear to Snow that he should have known this detail about Niall, despite the fact that this is the first time Dev is learning it as well.

“That—” Snow stops, pulls out his other headphone and stares at Niall. “That’s a thing?”

“Yeah mate, that’s a thing,” Niall says kindly, his condescending act from the moment before gone. He really can’t help but be nice, can he? “It’s pretty normal.”

I wish Niall would stop looking at me and smiling. I wish I could hug him, and say thank you, and tell him I’m proud, but this isn’t the time. And I’m fairly sure this is that line we talked about at the beginning of the term, the point where we put our friendship first.

“Does this mean that I’ll be gay by the end of next year?” Dev asks from the grass. “We seem to be coming out at the end of each year, have you noticed? Baz last year, Niall this year. Am I up next? Or is it Snow?”

Niall and I turn bright pink, and I know in this moment he wants to die as much as I do.

“I’m not in your friend group,” Snow says, standing up and winding the headphones around my mobile. “I’m heading back to the room. Thanks.”

I stay with Dev and Niall and watch him head back to Mummers, and the three of us debate whether the rumour about Craig Stainton’s supposed football scholarship is real, and discuss plans for the summer, and listen to Dev rhapsodise about French-Olivia’s eyes, and it’s good. It’s calm. And I can breathe again, without Snow around. And Niall came out and Dev was fine with it and most importantly, Niall and I are fine. We’re still friends.

When I get back to the room, Snow is at his desk, the window wide open, studying.

This is truly a day full of surreal surprises.

“Oh good, you’re back,” he says, tapping his biro against his teeth. “It’s weirdly quiet in here.”

I move past him and head to my wardrobe and dig out an old shoebox, ignoring his curious expression as I rummage around inside of it. Finding what I’m looking for, I toss the box aside, and then throw the small iPod to Snow.

“What is this?” he says, fumbling the catch as he turns over the iPod and headphones, examining it.

“My old iPod. You can have it.”

His head snaps up.

“Baz, I can’t—”

“This isn’t about you,” I snap, holding a hand up. “I’m doing a service to the world of Mages. If music helps you calm down, you should have music. It’s a no brainer. Really, I should receive a medal for this or something, for fixing the Chosen One.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“It’s not a charity gift. It’s because I pity you for getting dumped, and also I’m in constant fear that you’ll blow me up during the night.”

“I don’t have any way of putting music on it,” he says quietly, staring down at it.

“It’s already loaded,” I say, waving my hand. “Merlin knows what’s on there, I haven’t listened to it in years.”

“I’ll give it back at the end of the school year,” he starts, but I hold up my hand, already tired of this conversation and extremely uncomfortable with the level of kindness I’m showing right now.

“Snow, keep it. I don’t use it, and I have better ways of listening to music. Take it with you, throw it in a moat, I don’t care, just don’t get it confiscated.”

Snow looks confused, troubled and wildly out of his depth, and his eyebrows are drawn so close together that they may become one creature.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly. “There’s… there’s no music over the summer.” He looks up and meets my eyes. Clear blue, tinged with magic, and so alive. “It’s one of the things I miss most about Watford when I’m away.”

I break eye contact and stand up. I feel slightly like I might vomit from an overdose of emotion.

 

*******

 

I started scouring my mother’s books looking for any mention of Nico. I knew it was a longshot; I’d read them all before, anyway, and didn’t remember her mentioning anyone. So unsurprisingly, I didn’t find anything, but I did find a handful of interesting spells. I’ve been practising them — partially for study, partially for something to take my mind off of what’s been going on. But there’s one I’ve been avoiding.

I haven’t tried it for lots of reasons. Mostly, I didn’t want to know. There was Niall, of course, who I didn’t want to hurt. And then there had never been a good time to practise it, not really. And I didn’t even know if it would work.

If I’m being honest, I didn’t know if I wanted it to work.

Across the room, Snow is passed out in his bed, his soft snores echoing through the room. He fell asleep listening to my iPod, the white headphones shoved in his ears, and it’s still going. I can hear the low thrumming beat of Queen spilling out of them. _Dreamer’s Ball._

It’s windy outside but pleasant, and we have the window open, which is letting the air in and causing the sheets on both of our beds to ruffle slightly.

I feel weird doing this with him right there, even though I know it’ll be fine. Snow is a heavy sleeper, and I don’t think he’ll wake up for this. But even if he wasn’t, I’d risk it. I want to try it while he’s in the room, and we’re running out of time in the term. Summer’s almost here.

He gives a soft snort in his sleep and turns over, flinging his arm over his forehead. His curls are wild and grown out, finally at that perfect length when they’re just about to get in his eyes, and I know that as soon as he heads back to the care home they’ll shave them all off and he’ll start the growing process all over again.

His chest rises and falls and I watch him breathing, soaking in the sheer _life_ that is Simon Snow.

I open myself and let it wash over me, all the things I deliberately don’t think about: how beautiful he is. How stubborn he is. How big his heart is. How fucking stupid he is. How much he cares about everyone, but especially about doing the right thing. How he stopped wearing his cross, how he hums along to my music, how he sends me soft smiles sometimes. How he thinks I’m a friend.

The book is open in front of me, but I don’t need to consult it to cast this spell. Either I can do it, or I can’t.

Clutching my wand tighter, I push my blankets back and cross my legs, and take a deep breath. Snow snores in time with my breathing, turns over again, kicks back his blanket and bunches himself up into fetal position. One headphone slips out of his ear.

He’s impossible and a nightmare, and I love him. Enough to meet the conditions for the spell, I think.

 _“_ ** _On love’s light wings,”_ ** I whisper, and I feel the wind play at my hair as I slowly rise up, up in the air, hovering above our beds for a few moments, looking down on the sleeping form of Simon Snow — the Chosen One, the hero, my cursed roommate. The boy I’m stupidly in love with.

There’s a snuffling noise from below me and Snow’s eyes blink open as he squints upwards.

“Baz, why are you on the ceiling?”

My heart is hammering in my chest, and I swallow thickly.

“Spell practise,” I say. He squints, but in his half-asleep state, something about my explanation seems to make sense, so then he just nods.

“Weird,” he mutters, then turns over and goes back to sleep as I gently float back down to my bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS FEATURED IN THIS SECTION:**
> 
> [Road To Nowhere](https://open.spotify.com/track/5gS8whHdcpbkdz0qonQZF8?si=U98cdEniRs-zjDukNSVtFA) \- Talking Heads
> 
> [Ziggy Stardust](https://open.spotify.com/track/5IyL3XOaRPpTgxVjRIAxXU?si=N3hbOFmDTE6mAugTtnVUyQ) \- David Bowie
> 
> [These Days](https://open.spotify.com/track/2ZRBKVRMQ9OK4EeTaMHHSY?si=xL7zPOUARV2fWuZrVQNF6g) \- Nico
> 
> [Fluorescent Adolescent](https://open.spotify.com/track/7e8utCy2JlSB8dRHKi49xM?si=Fg_4uiipQuWRssE2g-H6XA) \- Arctic Monkeys
> 
> [The Chain](https://open.spotify.com/track/5e9TFTbltYBg2xThimr0rU?si=kLA3N27mQ7G92tkr_wwoCw) \- Fleetwood Mac
> 
> [Only The Good Die Young](https://open.spotify.com/track/1xOXXYh6lTW8laxlW7JP2J?si=k6O_8sAxR0aLTiNqmByXYw) \- Billy Joel
> 
> [Dreamer's Ball](https://open.spotify.com/track/7oWeFAbN7Ep3t2gDIEA3X4?si=2kqsH31TTE-lfG7EbWXvaw) \- Queen
> 
>  


	11. Who Loves The Sun? | Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR SEVEN, PART 1: Wedding crashers, family secrets, Ted Sheeran and The Thong Song. Nordic lesbians, daddy issues, resolved sexual tension and the Upside of Crippling Self Doubt. Down with English oppressors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Simon's **[Goblin Garotting](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/1MF75zy3ne8pPDn4g1vbIx?si=N08pHyyNSYCCaB-4tmgvwQ)**  playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**[Who Loves The Sun?](https://open.spotify.com/track/1rJi8cf8OWsrX4CqBnMSoQ?si=KNL_3l_bSYyEDxJB5oiWzQ) — The Velvet Underground
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello and welcome back! This chapter has plot. I'm so sorry. There will be more plot in the future. I'm so sorry. I'm about to destroy canon. I'm about to make everything so different. But there will be gay. There's gonna be a lot of fuckin gay coming up, I promise. 
> 
> Many kudos to the lovely lads who helped this chapter come to fruition -- @[digitalis-obscura](http://digitalis-obscura.tumblr.com/) @[aoi-herondale](http://aoi-herondale.tumblr.com/) @[pitchthesnitch](https://pitchthesnitch.tumblr.com/) for beta reading. @[bazfloralsuit](https://bazfloralsuit.tumblr.com/) for giving me the idea for the monster of the week, and @great-merlins-beard and @bread-of-god-is-bread for being inexhaustible in your good cheer and support. Baylee, why did you let me do this. Hope, thank you for reminding me of the early 2000s obsession with The Thong Song.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading along and being so wonderful. I live for your comments and they make me so, so warm! Always feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com/). xx - Ban

“Alright, let’s review the plan,” I say, taking a sip of champagne and focusing on the table around me. “Bunce, you’re annoying, so you talk until Fiona turns to drink. Mention how much you love One Direction or something. Dev, you keep a steady flow of champagne near her at all times; she’s a lightweight, and champagne makes her loud. Niall, you run interference and keep her far away from any member of the Wellbelove family. Once she’s weak and chatty, I’ll corner her.”

Everyone at the table nods awkwardly, except for Dev, who appears to be the only one of my friends committed to this plan. Honestly. It’s like they’ve never tried to get a family member drunk and pump them for information at a wedding before.

It’s not my most elegant plan, admittedly, but Fiona has proved exceptionally slippery all summer. Part of me thinks Malcolm had to have tipped her off, because she’s barely given me a moment all month to ask her about Nico. Thank Merlin for Wellbelove’s aunt Clara and her ridiculous society wedding trapping us here together all night.

“What do I do?” Mordelia asks. She’s insisted on sitting in my lap since we got to the wedding reception, and one of my legs has begun to go a bit numb.

“You,” I say, picking her up and depositing her on the ground, “are to find Father and insist on a dance.”

“I don’t want to dance with Daddy,” Mordelia pouts. Her stringy brown hair is falling in her face, and I have to wonder why Daphne even bothered trying to put it up. I sigh.

“Alright, then go find Mum and see if she needs help with Ophelia and Acantha.”

“But I want to stay with you,” she insists. I look at Bunce for help — she has a million siblings, doesn’t she? — but she’s staring off at something toward the entrance that’s caught her attention. I shouldn’t have expected back up; she barely wants to help with this plan as it is. If it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t know anyone else here, I don’t think she’d be helping out at all.

“I’ve got to take care of something right now, little punk,” I tell her. “But I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

“Then we’ll dance,” Mordelia decrees, and Niall snorts into his champagne. He should slow it down — he’s hardly better than Fiona at holding his drink. A national disgrace.

I sigh the sigh of beleaguered big brothers everywhere and nod.

“Yes, and then we’ll dance.”

“Simon?”

My head snaps up at Bunce’s voice, along with everyone else’s at the table, to see Simon Snow standing in front of us, looking extremely embarrassed and covered in blood.

“Alright?” he asks with a small wave, before shoving his hands in his trackie pockets. He’s wearing a grey vest that shows off his arms — his large arms, because somehow Snow has really filled out in a month — and the shirt is stained a dark, rusty red. I can smell the blood from here.

It’s not human.

“What happened? Why are you here?” Bunce asks. I know she’s happy to see him, but she certainly doesn’t sound like it. I wonder if she ever shows joy, or if she’s just made entirely of ball-busting determination.

“I was out with the Mage,” Snow explains. “Goblins.”

Everyone at the table nods.

“Anyway, yeah, we were finishing up, but then he remembered that he was supposed to be here, so he said I could tag along. He’s around here somewhere…” he mutters, trailing off.

Mordelia is captivated with him, and she turns to me, her eyes wide.

“ _What’s wrong with him?_ ” she asks me in a far too loud whisper.

“More than I can explain,” I whisper back. Snow’s eyes land on me for the first time, and he startles, as if he hadn’t realised I was there.

“Baz!” he says, and I swear to Merlin something on his face lights up. “You’re here.”

“Obviously,” I respond. Mordelia’s eyes bounce back and forth between us.

“You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

Niall chokes into his champagne, and Dev raises an eyebrow. My face heats up and I almost reach out to rub my hand over my thigh, but I catch myself just in time.

“It’s a wedding. Some of us didn’t dress casually,” I respond cooly, trying desperately to act like this isn’t fucking destroying me.

“It’s red,” he says.

Technically it’s crimson, but I don’t correct him. I also don’t really know why we’re just standing here, stating facts, but luckily Wellbelove saves me from having to respond, because she’s charging toward our table, looking like a murderous daydream in her flowing mint bridesmaids dress. She has a soft smile on her face, but her eyes speak of carnage.

“The Mage is here! Isn’t that just wonderful? Except he didn’t RSVP! Even though he was sent several reminders! My mother is about to have a breakdown, and I have to talk to the caterer, and — Oh! Simon! You’re here!” Wellbelove’s eyes travel up and down his body and her polite smile falters. “In trackies. Covered in blood. At a wedding.”

Snow offers up a weak smile.

“Didn’t know I was coming,” he says with a small shrug.

Wellbelove looks on the brink of a meltdown.

“Baz,” she says, her smile stuck in place and her voice tight. “Could you…help Simon, please? Or someone? Just find him something to wear? Or something clean?”

Bunce looks at her shoes, Dev inspects his watch closely, and Niall knocks back the rest of his champagne.

“Is that Craig Stainton over there? I think he needs…” he begins, but walks away before finishing the sentence. Traitors. Every fucking one of them.

No honour amongst wedding guests, I suppose.

Snow looks up at me, his face a portrait of awkward humiliation, and I sigh. He has blood in his hair. Of course he does.

“Come on, Snow. I’ve got an extra suit that will fit you. Mordelia, go find Father. He’s probably looking murderous in a corner somewhere.”

Snow follows me out of the grand dining hall and into the hallway of the hotel. The concierge has the good grace to not blink at Simon’s appearance as I pull out my room key and swipe us into the lift.

We ride up in awkward silence.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says finally as we exit into the hallway.

“It’s a Coven wedding. All families on the Coven are invited.”

“Oh,” Snow says. “Right.”

We reach my door and I take a breath before I put in my card and push the door open, revealing the excessively posh hotel room. It’s the height of modern class — thin lines, minimalistic colours, and a huge bed in the centre, made up with blue silk sheets. Dev, Niall and I were laying on it four hours ago to watch football highlights.

The Wellbeloves really did go all out for this wedding. Fiona says it’s because everyone thought Clara was going to be single forever. I think that’s a bit rich, coming from Fiona.

She didn’t like that response.

“Here,” I say, crossing to the closet and pulling out the extra suit I bought. For once, my neuroticism came in handy. “Bathroom is there, but I can do a spell if you don’t want to shower.”

“Would you?” he asks, smiling awkwardly. “It’s just… I don’t know how long the Mage is staying, and I kind of did something to my shoulder — I think a goblin got me, it’s kind of hard to raise my arms….”

He’s standing extremely close to me, and both of us are still touching the suit. I swallow then nod, stepping away to pull out my wand and cast a quick _“_ ** _spic and span!_** ” on him. He scrunches up his nose when the spell hits him, and I want to kiss him.

I always want to kiss him.

“Go get changed,” I order, turning my back to him. There’s a beat of silence, and then he disappears into the bathroom and I turn to face the window and attempt to not lose my fucking mind.

All of my hard work goes out the window the second Snow opens the door to the bathroom and is standing there in a dark blue suit, the tie in his hand. My suit doesn’t fit him — the height is alright, thankfully, but it’s too tight in the chest and shoulders, and although I’m not letting myself look, I’m fairly sure it’s too tight in the thighs as well.

I like everything about Snow in this suit.

“I, uh, can’t tie the tie,” he says sheepishly.

“How do you get dressed every day at school?” I ask, frowning. Snow shakes his head.

“No, I mean, my shoulder. It’s all wonky, I can’t move it well.”

I want to cross the room and take his tie and wrap it around his neck, crowd into his space as I tie it properly, brush his neck with my fingers as I tighten it, and then stare down into his blue eyes and smirk as he gets breathless from my closeness. I want to turn him around and press small circles of warmth into his shoulder, pepper kisses along the nape of his neck, push out the weight and tension that he’s carrying.

Instead I pull my wand out and point it at him again.

“ ** _Get well soon!_** ” I chant, then store it back up my sleeve. Snow rotates his shoulder, massaging it gently, then grins.

“Thanks,” he says, sounding sincere, then ties his tie.

“So what’s the deal with the goblins?” I ask, holding the door for him so we can get back to the wedding reception. I need to be out of this opulent room with a giant bed and a well-dressed Snow as soon as possible. He’s too close, too soft, too good looking. His shoulder brushes against my chest when he walks past me out of the door, and I almost grab him.

Maybe I’ve had more to drink than I think. I get affectionate when drunk.

“Oh, the Mage picked me up to go deal with them,” Snow says, throwing cold water on my determination to hug him. “Turns out they were eating people in club toilets.”

“So you killed them?”

He shrugs.

“Had to be done. They’re persistent.”

“I hope you left at least one alive. You should have gotten his number. I know you love goblins.”

Snow chokes as the lift doors open.

“What?”

“Goblins,” I say with a smirk, punching the button with satisfaction. “I know you think they’re fit.”

“Yeah, well,” Snow says, pulling at his collar. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Dark creature and all. They’re all supposed to be fit.”

The doors open again as I struggle to conceal my huge, unbidden grin.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, pausing near the entrance to the reception room, “I have an aunt to get plastered. Save me a dance, eh?”

Snow turns a bright, bright red, and I saunter off.

 

***

 

As it turns out, I didn’t need Bunce to annoy Fiona into her cups, because the second she caught sight of the Mage she made a beeline for the bar.

“She’s pretty close to blitzed,” Niall says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. Across the table Snow looks up from his conversation with Bunce and narrows his eyes at us. I throw a confused look at him and turn back to speak to Niall.

“I’ll let her stew a bit more. If I strike before it’s thoroughly soaked in, she’ll just start yelling, and then Wellbelove will kill me,” I whisper back. Niall snorts.

Snow’s eyes are boring into us, and I look away. I don’t understand his expression. He’s looking at me like he used to, back when he believed I was constantly planning his death, when not an hour ago in my room he was all soft eyes and shy smiles.

“Well done mate — Snow looks fit to burst,” Niall whispers. I have no idea what he means, but Dev leans in from my other side.

“Why does Snow look like he’s about to vomit?”

“That’s his natural expression,” I snap, and Dev chuckles.

“Oi, why aren’t you hanging all over Craig Stainton? He’s all by himself over there,” Dev says to Niall, pointing at where Craig is, indeed, sitting between two elderly women, looking miserable.

“I’m biding my time,” Niall responds, blushing.

“You should ask him to dance,” Dev responds. I raise an eyebrow. I have no idea what’s going on, but I really don’t enjoy being literally in the middle of this conversation.

“Speaking of dancing,” I say, standing up and clearing my throat. Snow’s eyes follow me and go wide. “I promised Wellbelove a turn. Excuse me.”

Snow watches me go as his expression folds in.

I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Agatha is by the bar, and I catch her looking both ways before downing a glass of white wine as I approach.

“Having fun?” I ask, and she nearly jumps.

“No, not at all,” she responds. “I’m never getting married. This is horrible.”

“Well there goes my grand plan,” I respond, and offer my hand. “Care to dance?”

She smiles up at me and lets me lead her to the dance floor. _Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours_ is playing. I try not to take it personally, and spin Wellbelove neatly into my arms.

“Why are you and your gang trying to get Fiona drunk?” she asks, nestling her hand onto my shoulder. “I know you’re not using my aunt’s wedding for one of your hijinx. Because you’re my best friend, and you know how important this is to me. And I know you wouldn’t mess that up.”

Her brown eyes are so sharp they could cut open my chest and reveal my sins.

“Who uses the word hijinx anymore?” I sniff, twirling her in a circle. “And they’re hardly my gang. More like my minions.”

“One day you’re going to have to admit that you have friends,” she sighs, resting her forehead on my shoulder. “One day you’re going to have to accept that people like you.”

“Please don’t be sentimental, you know I’m allergic,” I respond, but I still pull her closer and press a light kiss to her hair. I glance to the side and see that Snow has pulled Bunce out of her chair, and the two of them are in the corner of the dance floor, twirling horribly to the beat and laughing maniacally.

“It seems like you and Snow have handled your divorce well,” I say, gesturing my head toward them. Snow has just pulled Bunce into a wild spin, and gotten elbowed in the gut in response. Wellbelove makes a face.

“Don’t call it that,” she snaps, shaking her head. “But yeah. He took it better than I expected, which was a relief. Considering Simon doesn’t really take anything well, ever.”

“He’s better at coping than you think,” I murmur, turning us slowly. I’ve a better view of the room from here. Niall is sat next to Craig Stainton, talking with him animatedly, while Dev watches from across the room. At the far end, Fiona is struggling into her black silk jacket, an unlit cigarette between her lips.

I catch Dev’s eye and give him a meaningful nod, and he stands up quickly.

“I’ve got to go catch Fiona, so I will cede this dance to my cousin,” I tell Wellbelove, spinning her tidily into Dev’s waiting arms. He grins widely and Wellbelove sighs.

“Brilliant,” she mutters, but allows herself to be led across the floor as I take off after my aunt.

I catch up to her on the balcony overlooking the gardens, rummaging around inside her jacket for a lighter that isn’t there, because no Pitch has ever needed a lighter, ever.

“Here,” I say quietly, calling up a flame and offering it to her. Fiona leans forward, the fag still between her lips, and lights it easily.

“Thanks,” she says with a nod, and then turns to look out into the night. She takes three quick drags of her cigarette, exhales, and then stomps it out underneath one razor-sharp black heel.

“You haven’t danced at all tonight,” I comment. I’ve a plan. I’m going to take this slowly. Fiona snorts.

“The music is awful. Do you hear this shit? They’re playing Ted Sheeran. I’m not dancing to that.”

“Ed,” I correct, and then want to set myself on fire. “And that was earlier. Listen, it’s the Beatles now. That’s serviceable enough. Come on. Let’s get it over, shall we? At least out here no one can see us.”

Fiona lets out a hissing sigh and then nods. She’s a shit, but she loves _Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da._

“Alright, why the fuck not. Come here, boyo, I’ll lead.”

Fiona pulls me into an awkward waltz, where we both start battling for control. I’m taller than her — I’ve been taller than her for awhile now, but she’s not a short woman, and it’s slightly odd to dance with someone who isn’t short and dainty like Wellbelove.

“Fi,” I say, narrowly avoiding stepping on her foot, “Who is Nico?”

She goes ramrod straight in my arms, and it takes my vampire strength to keep us moving.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, and I shake my head.

“I think you do. Malcolm told me to ask you, and he was lying when he said he didn’t know. So who is Nico, and why did my mother think he sent vampires to kill her?”

“He didn’t,” Fiona says, her eyes shining with anger. “He fucking didn’t.”

“So why did mum think he did?”

Fiona pulls back from me and shakes her head. Her dark hair has been loosely curled for the event, the white streak in front accentuating her sharp cheekbones and dark eyes.

“No,” she says. “No. Some things need to stay dead.”

“I saw it, Fi. I watched it happen. I heard her say his name, and the vampires called him a weak half-Mage. Who was he?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snaps, moving away, but I catch her hand.

“That’s because you wiped my memory.” I’m trying to be gentle and calm and not resort to my genetic predilection to eviscerate her. “Tell me who he is, and why you did it.”

Fiona breaks, pulling her arm from my grip and sitting down heavily on the stairs leading to the garden.

“Nico… was my friend from school. My best friend, actually. He…” Fiona snorts, pulls another fag from her pocket, and lights it with a trembling flame. “We were close. But he was crazy. It was fun, for awhile, until we left school, and he got all these ideas in his head and…”

Fiona blows the smoke out into the night air and looks at me sideways.

“He went and became a vampire, because he wanted power and eternal life and all that macho bullshit.”

 _Eternal life_.

I choke on her words, and smooth my hand against my suit trousers. It’s a question I’ve always had. Will I live forever? I’ve tried to take Snow’s viewpoint on it, and just deliberately avoid thinking about it.

“And did he?” I ask, my voice tight. “Get eternal life?”

“Fuck if I know,” Fiona barks. “No one knows. Doubt it. I heard he’s aging worse than Mick Jagger. But he didn’t get power. Got his teeth yanked out and his wand snapped, stricken from the Book of Mages and banished from our world.”

She blows out another long, slow stream of smoke and shakes her head.

“He was an idiot, but he wouldn’t have gone after Nat. Not knowing… not knowing what she meant to me. He never wanted to kill people. He just wanted power.”

“Fiona,” I say, swallowing. “Why would my mother think he sent vampires after her?”

Fiona shrugs and shakes her head.

“I’ve been wondering that for years, ever since you asked me about Nico the first time, when you were six. Scared the fuck out of me, when you did. Christmas morning and everything. Nearly had a fucking heart attack.” Fiona rubs at her wrist. “Nat was a strategist, you know. Fierce. Applied logic first and then emotion last. She led the vote to have Nico’s teeth pulled out. I figure she assumed he was there for revenge.”

“She had his teeth pulled out?”

Something oily is churning in my stomach.

“Nat hated vampires, little punk. Hated them all. Granted, she never really knew one.” She knocks me in the shoulder. “Didn’t know that they can be weirdo nerds who fold their towels and listen to Duran Duran. Didn’t know they can be a royal pain in the ass, cornering you when you’re drunk at a wedding.” She sighs and looks out at the hotel garden. Beyond the far brick walls, London is shining. Somewhere behind those walls, Nico is alive. “I never thought I’d say it, but Nat didn’t understand everything, even if I thought she did. That’s why she did it, in the end. There was no other option for her.”

“Did what?” I whisper, not wanting to know, but desperately needing to hear.

“Took herself out along with all the other vampires,” Fiona says, letting out a long hiss of air, and then takes a slow drag on her cigarette. “As soon as she was bit, I know she had to have made up her mind.”

“She was bit?”

My throat is closing in on me, and Fiona stares.

“I thought you watched it all?” She swears and slams her fist into the ground. “Mother fucker, this is why I erased your memory. I didn’t want you to know that. I didn’t want you asking questions about Nico and trying to go sniff him out. I didn’t want you bringing attention to yourself because of it. I didn’t want you to have to deal with this, Baz!”

“She… she set herself on fire because she was bit,” I echo. “She thought she was better dead than Turned. She… she would have killed me, if she’d known, wouldn’t she?”

Fiona’s eyes are sad and haunted.

“Your mother was fierce. And she loved you fiercely. No matter what, she loved you, punk.” Fiona sighs and pushes herself up from the stair with a heavy groan. “But she wasn’t perfect. She was the best person I’ve ever met, but in some ways you’re better. _We’re_ better.”

“Fi,” I say. My voice is quiet and small in the night. She turns back to look at me. “I forgive you for taking my memory.” She blinks, and I look away. I hate this emotional shit, but sometimes it has to be done. “I would have done the same.”

Fiona closes her eyes against the dark night air and puts one rough hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t go looking for Nico. It’s Mage law — we’re not allowed to talk to him.” She pauses. “But more importantly, there’s nothing you can learn from him. He betrayed us all, and he’s nothing anymore. A two-bit gangster. He does other people’s dirty work now. You can’t learn anything from him except how to be a shitty vampire and fuck over the people who love you.”

She looks out to the night.

“As far as you’re concerned, boyo, Nicodemus Petty is dead.”

 

***

 

Waiting for Snow to get back to school is like having an itch on the bottom of my foot. Nothing I do is going to make it better, and it’s fruitless to even try.

It also doesn’t help that he’s outrageously late.

Usually he gets in before I do, because I always delay getting back to school, but this year I came back as early as I could. I rousted Fiona from bed bright and early and already had my bags packed and loaded in the MG. She cursed up a storm but ended up just giving me the keys and letting me drive so she could sleep.

We got here before eleven, and I’ve been waiting for him since.

I feel like I’m going to itch out of my skin, like nothing fits right, like something is boiling under my surface and begging for me to tear it off in chunks and burn out the infection. I’ve felt like this since the wedding, since Fiona told me about my mother being bitten. Something is _off_.

When I went back in from our conversation, all I wanted was to see Snow. To goad him a bit, or get him huffy, just — something. Some kind of normalcy. But he was gone. He and the Mage had taken off while I was outside, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye or get my suit back, so instead I hit the bar — and hit it, and hit it, and hit it, until I was well and sloshed and taking long, calculated strides back to my hotel room, my arm around Niall’s shoulders.

“You should come in,” I’d said, leaning over to press my face to his hair. He was drunk as well, and he shrugged.

“Why not, you’ve the bigger telly,” he said with a laugh, and we stumbled into the room. I turned on him immediately, grabbing at his lapels, and pulled him toward me.

“You are atrocious at holding your champagne,” I said, leaning in to kiss him, but he stepped back, his easy smile gone.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not — that’s not us, remember?”

“Who cares? We’re drunk,” I’d snapped back, kicking off my dress shoes unsteadily and collapsing face down on the bed. “It would be nice.”

“Yeah, it would,” Niall responded, taking off his own shoes and collapsing next to me. “But not the kind of nice we want, remember?”

“Sometimes I feel dead,” I said, despite making no conscious decision to ever fucking say that. “Sometimes I remember that I’m a fucking monster, and I just want to feel human. I just want to…” I growled into my pillow. “I just want to have something nice. You’re nice. You’re so fucking _nice_ , Kelly. How are you so _nice_?”

Niall was silent beside me for too long, and then finally he turned over with a groan and forcefully pushed me off the bed.

“Humans get pathetically sloshed. Dark creatures don’t. You’re pure human, mate. Go take a shower and sober up, because you reek.”

I stared at him from the floor, disoriented, humiliated, horrified, and on the verge of fucking tears. Niall blinked back down at me, and my heart thudded up into my ears.

“Shower,” he instructed, sitting up with a heavy grunt. “I’m going to order up some chips. And then we’re going to sit here and be drunk and find a movie to watch, like humans, alright?”

“Very well, then,” I’d said, and promptly passed out.

Niall is too good of a person to ever mention that I got blisteringly drunk, tried to proposition him, and then blacked out on my floor, but I won’t forget it. Probably ever. He was right. He was entirely right, but it hasn’t changed this _need_ , this _itch_ , for some kind of release, something to break the pressure and terror that’s climbing inside of me.

Something like Snow. But he’s not here, it’s now 10 p.m. and I’m ready to pitch myself off the turret.

In an attempt to kill time I went to the kitchen to feed after the back to school picnic, and my chat with Cook Pritchard took up exactly ten minutes of my day, and now I have to think of something else to do.

I should just go to my room, put on music and stare at the ceiling.

Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

When I get to the door, though, it’s unlocked, and I can hear the soft echo of music floating through under the door.

Stupid Snow never did learn the silence spell.

I want to burst into the room and tell him everything I’ve learned and ask him if he has the suit I leant him for the wedding and also drink him in because it’s been a month and I’m pathetic, but instead I school my expression into a blank mask and open the door.

My blank expression quickly turns to horror.

“What the fuck are you listening to?”

Snow looks up from the middle of unpacking. His shirt is ripped, he has leaves and dirt in his hair, and a small bruise forming on his cheek.

And he’s listening to the most ridiculous song I’ve ever heard in my life.

“Music,” he grunts, pulling his pants out of his duffle. “Welcome back, Baz. How are you doing? Your suit is in your wardrobe. I had a good summer, thanks. Yes, there were more goblins. Yes, I killed them. Yes, I had to. No, I didn’t get any blood on your suit.”

I blink.

“What the fuck are you listening to?”

“Bucks Fizz?” he says, looking up at me like I’m an idiot. “It came off of your iPod, Baz.”

I stare at him in horror as _Making Your Mind Up_ blares through the room.

“Snow, this came off of a joke CD Niall made me when we were twelve. It’s not _real_. Don’t tell me you spent all summer listening to it.”

“Er—”

“How did you even _find_ it?”

“It was on a playlist called ‘This Is Disgusting.’ Good playlist, actually. I didn’t know you like The Spice Girls.”

“Oh my God, you mean you listened to that entire thing? Snow, _The Thong Song_ was on that playlist.”

“Oh. That explains a lot,” he says, sitting down with a shrug. “Whatever, I like the song.”

“Aleister fucking Crowley. An entire library of good music and you find the only bad songs I own. You’re impressive Snow, I’ll give you that.”

He growls something obscene at me and I suddenly remember why I’m here.

“Your goatherd,” I say, flapping my arms to silence him. I’ll critique his music taste later. “The lesbian. Ebb, right? Her last name is Petty, isn’t it?”

Snow nods, frowning.

“I don’t know if Ebb’s a lesbian. She just likes nymphs, I think. Do they even have genders? But yeah, it’s Petty. Why?”

I pause. Do I explain? Does he even want to know? This isn’t one of his adventures; it’s just me digging into the painful ghosts of my mother’s death. I’ve already smeared the sticky residue of it all over my life, but why should I involve Snow in it? It’s not his job, and not his business.

But he said he wanted to help. He said he cared.

I could try trusting him, and taking him at his word.

“Nico,” I say, calmly. “I asked Fiona about him. They went to school together. His name was Nicodemus Petty.”

“Ebb’s brother?” Snow’s eyebrows shoot up. “But he’s dead. She’s always crying over him.”

“Not dead.” I shift. “Not entirely,” I amend. I don’t like thinking about that thorny philosophical conundrum. “He’s a vampire. He Turned himself willingly.”

“Then he’s not dead,” Snow says quickly, and my stomach does an undignified and extremely homosexual leap. “Is he… did he go after your Mum, then?”

“No,” I answer, because I feel confident enough in that. I trust Fiona’s judgement — but more than that, I trust that Nico’s head would be on a spike if Fiona weren’t 100 per cent sure he were innocent. “But he might know something, and I’d like to speak to him.”

Snow sits down on the corner of my bed and observes me.

“Baz…” he starts, then frowns. “Why would he know something? You don’t think he was involved. And… the Humdrum sent the vampires. Do you think he knows something about the Humdrum?”

I need to choose my words carefully. I’ve been avoiding this subject with him, because it would go down this path, and I know how he’ll react.

“I don’t think the Humdrum killed her. I think someone else did. I think the attack was unrelated.”

“Why do you think that? Who would want your mum dead?”

I shift. I need to be steady. Careful. Like I’m approaching a wild animal, but one I don’t actually intend to eat.

“The nursery was sealed off by request, because someone didn’t want anyone to see what happened. I think they were hiding the mention of Nico. I think Nico may know something, and that the person who sealed the room is covering their tracks.”

“Or,” Snow says, “they sealed the room because that memory shows something _else_ happening. How do you know one of your family members didn’t do it to hide _your_ secret?”

His words hang heavy between us, and my face heats up. I hate when he does this. I hate when he just acknowledges that I’m a vampire out of nowhere, without couching it or trying to pretend he doesn’t know. I’ve never even confirmed it. He’s just _sure_.

“The hare said the headmaster sealed off the room.”

“It could have been your mum,” he counters.

“Or more likely, it was the Mage. And I’m fairly sure he would have mentioned something about my condition by now, don’t you?”

“Why would the Mage want to hide information about Nico?”

“Why indeed?”

“Crowley, not this _again_ ,” Snow growls, slapping the bed. “I thought you got past this obsession with the Mage. Now you think he killed your mum?”

“You said it, not me,” I retort. Snow crosses his arms and shakes his head.

“No. It’s not the Mage. He’s a good person.”

“He’s not,” I say, shaking my head. “Look, we’ve been here before. Want to rehash this whole argument? He’s a menace. He’s _used_ you. He treats you like a weapon. He ignored you all last year and you fell apart, and then he shows up and takes you goblin hunting and suddenly everything is fine? Do you truly trust him so much that you won’t even consider he may know something?”

“It’s not my fault you don’t trust anyone!”

“Maybe that’s because no one has proved themselves worth trusting,” I snap back.

Snow’s face goes slack.

Oh, Crowley. I’ve upset him.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to his now unpacked duffle.

“Snow—” I start, but he shrugs me off. He’s closed down, gone blank. Completely shut off from me. He grabs a hoodie that he’s just unpacked and pulls it over his head, disregarding the small fact that he’s covered in blood.

“Gonna find Pen. We’ll talk to Ebb later,” he mutters, not even looking at me as he walks out of the room.

His iPod is still playing, hooked into my speaker. ABBA is playing.

Like I didn’t already feel shitty enough.

 

***

 

The only reason I came back to the nursery is to prove Snow wrong. That’s it. No other reason at all. I just need to prove him wrong, and then I can leave. There’s no need to investigate any further.

“Hare,” I shout, staring up at the ceiling. I’m not here to faff about. “Which headmaster sealed the room?”

The hares begin their frantic, circular chase across the ceiling mural, and one drops to the floor.

“ _David Llewelyn_ ,” it wheezes. It sounds like it needs to sneeze.

My eyes close, and I take a deep breath. It’s what I expected to hear, and yet… It’s another to have it confirmed. But I was right. Fuck you, Snow. I was right.

“What was Llewelyn trying to hide?”

The white hare blinks up at me.

“ _Answer unknown_.”

A small growl of frustration ripples through me. I feel like I’m dancing around the edge of the answers, like I’m on the very precipice of understanding. I wish someone would just fucking _tell_ me. Every day I go back and forth between believing that there’s something wrong here, that someone killed my mother, and then the next moment I find myself doubting whether anything at all happened. What if I’m just reading into coincidences and finding clues where there are none? What if it really is just as simple as what I’ve always believed? What if the Humdrum did kill my mother?

“Did the Mage kill my mother?”

The hare twitches.

“ _Answer unknown_.”

If this rabbit weren’t made out of gossamer and mist, I’d eat it for lunch.

“Do you know anything?” I snap viciously.

“ _We are an interactive learning experience which draws information from the Watford library. If you would like to suggest an addition to our database, please do so.”_

I sigh and close my eyes, and then flop down onto the ground in an utterly graceless way that is far too dramatic. I knew better than to ask. I knew it wouldn't have anything for me. There’s only one thing this stupid fucking bunny can show me that I want to know.

But I don’t know if I want to see it.

The hare blinks at me, it’s small black nose quivering, it’s hind legs crouched in preparation for a bounce that’s never coming. It just stares at me, beady black eyes staring into my soul.

“Hare, show me the vampire attack.”

The other five hares jump down from the ceiling just like before, whipping themselves into a circular frenzy as the air between them shimmers and the memory begins to replay. Me, on the ground. The vampires bursting in. My mother appearing. The vampire hauling me up by my dungarees, and —

“Basilton!” my mother shouts as the vampire holding me by my scruff sinks his teeth into my five-year-old neck. I watch as my younger self screams in terror and pain, chubby legs kicking out. My mother starts forward, but she’s grabbed by the rest of the vampires, and she lets out a bone-chilling scream.

“Let go of my son!” she shouts.

“In’t your son no more, Mistress,” the pale faced monster retorts. But he does drop me.

Not by choice, that is. But because his head has suddenly left his body, and I’m fairly certain that my mother did it, despite being wandless, and with her hands held behind her back.

The group of vampires shouts in surprise and one of them mumbles something that sounds like “hurry up,” and then—

My mother shouts in pain as another vampire sinks his teeth into her neck.

On the floor across the room I’m screaming and sobbing in pain, clutching at my neck as crimson blood spills down my blue dungarees.

I just keep crying  “mum” over and over.

My mother lashes against the vampires holding her, but she’s not screaming. Not crying. She’s wonderfully, horribly still.

“Basilton,” she says, and her voice cuts like ice. “Basilton, love, I love you.”

Five year-old me doesn’t even acknowledge her words, just keeps crying.

“I love you little puff,” she says, and then closes her eyes. I want this memory to stop now. I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t bring myself to stop.

“ ** _Tyger, Tyger, burning bright_** ,” she chokes, and she and all the vampires crowded around her go up in flames.

The nursery is still, and silent. Even five year-old me has stopped crying.

“Mum?” I ask into the charred stillness of the nursery.

No one answers back.

“Thank you, hare,” I croak in real time, and the rabbits stop their endless circling.

My thoughts are spinning faster than my brain can keep up. Fiona was right — my mother was bit. She did set herself on fire when it happened.

But she didn’t take me with her.

She knew I had been bit. She knew what I was going to be, and she… let me live.

My mother’s last act wasn’t one of heroism. It was one of selflessness.

She told me she loved me, and then she left.

My legs are unsteady as I push myself up from the floor, and I stumble slightly as I head for the door. The Humdrum definitely didn’t kill her. I’m positive of that now. When the Humdrum sends things they’re… empty. Wild, reckless, all consumed with the idea of the hunt. But these vampires weren’t like that. They were calculating.

One of them told the other to hurry up. Hurry up, like there was a plan and a timetable they were meant to follow.

I don’t think the Humdrum works on a schedule.

My stomach is warring between horror over what I’ve seen and strange, indescribable elation over the fact that my _mother let me live_. All my life the people who knew her have reassured me that she would love me, but always couched in the strange understanding that she would have detested what I am. But here’s the proof.

My mother knew.

I want to tell Simon. It’s all I can think of. I want to tell him what I’ve seen, to prove I’m right, to let him in on this huge, all consuming secret. Things have been weird and tense since he got back, but here is _proof_ that I was right. Proof that the Mage was involved somehow.

Proof that I’m not a complete abomination.

Maybe if I tell him — trust him — with this, things will get better. Things won’t be so stiff. He’ll know that I didn’t mean what I said.

I walk back toward our dorm so fast that I almost miss him, sitting in the grass with Bunce and Wellbelove and Trixie, of all people. I adjust my course quickly and stride over, throwing a long shadow over their pretty tableau.

“Snow,” I say, hands in pockets. “I need to talk to you.”

He squints up at me.

“Alright. ‘Bout what?”

I glare at him and glance at Trixie.

“That conversation we had on the first day back.”

He frowns, his carefree grin from a moment before gone, and then pushes himself up from the grass. I’d rather go back to our room to have this conversation, but he sets off in the direction of the football pitch, so I follow.

“I went back to the nursery,” I tell him. “And I was right. The hares confirmed it. The Mage did request the room seal itself. I _told_ you he was involved.”

Snow kicks at a branch.

“Right,” he responds. “Why don’t you just ask him, then?”

“Are you mad?” I snarl. “Stroll up and ask the Mage why he hid the details of my mother’s death? Why don’t I also tell him I’m a vampire while I’m at it, huh?”

Snow freezes and stares at me, I realise what I’ve done.

“Baz—” he starts, but I sluff him off.

“I watched the whole thing,” I say, sidestepping his empathy. “I watched it all, through me being bit, and her being bit, and her saying goodbye and then…” I trail off and fix my eyes pointedly on the goalpost ahead of us. “The vampires were in sound mind. There wasn’t that sucking feeling, you know the one that comes with the Humdrum? It didn’t do this. Someone killed her, I’m positive of it.”

“And you think it was the Mage,” he responds dryly.

Yes. I absolutely fucking do. Or at least I think that slippery green fuck was involved.

“I think Nico knows something, and I want to talk to Ebb.”

“You can’t just show up and grill her about her vampire brother,” Snow growls out. “She’s sensitive. She cries a lot.”

“Brilliant, so you’re perfectly matched,” I shoot back. Snow’s brow grows more and more pinched.

“You can’t go in there and be a prick to her and start throwing accusations. She’s my friend.”

“This is my _mother_ ,” I snap. “Crowley, Snow, I don’t give a damn about her sensitivities, her brother knows something about my mother’s death. He could be involved. He could be the reason I am what I am. Who cares if I make her cry?”

I’m being a bulldozer. I’m reverting to my stiff back, blunt attack mode, couching everything in sarcasm. I know I’m being an absolute prick, but I can’t stop myself. I’m close. I’m _so close_ to finally proving something about the Mage, and if some tears have to be shed to get there? No skin off my teeth.

“I care!” Snow snarls, turning on me. “Unlike some people, I care about my friends and their feelings and how I treat people! I’m not going to let you bully Ebb because of your vendetta against the Mage.”

My jaw drops. What the fuck is this, fifth year? Is all of this just because I hurt his feelings by insinuating I don’t trust him? I let him wear my _suit_. How much more could I prove I care?

I was angry and worked up and I didn’t mean it, that first day back when we fought in the room. I thought Snow knew me well enough by now to know I constantly say things I don’t mean.

“Snow, is this about that trust comment? Because I do trust you. You don’t need to be so sensitive about it.”

“I’m not being sensitive!” he roars. Small sparks of magic shoot out of his hands, and a flock of pigeons nearby takes flight. “Why are you like this? It’s like the second the Mage comes up you turn into this awful fucking person. That’s not you, Baz. Why can’t you get past it? I got past you always trying to kill me!”

“This isn’t about the Mage, it’s about my _mother_ ,” I hiss.

“It’s always about the Mage with you,” he bites back.

“Look who’s fucking talking, Snow. You shut down the moment he comes up. He’s got you whipped like a dog, trailing at his bootstraps, when he doesn’t care about you. You know that, right? You’re a tool to him, you’re not anything—”

Suddenly I’m sent sprawling backwards. I land hard on my ass, skidding slightly in the grass, entirely off balance from the force with which Snow just pushed me.

“Fuck you,” he says, quietly.

And then he walks away.

 

*******

 

Snow isn’t talking to me.

He’s talking to everyone else, but not me.

In the library he’ll approach the table where Bunce and I sit, and he’ll ask her questions about homework and completely disregard me. In class he’ll make a joke to Wellbelove, but not look at me when I laugh.

“Just give him time,” Wellbelove said. She had her head leaning against my lap as we sat under the Yew tree. “Simon is a complicated person. He’s working things out.”

“Snow is about as complicated as a snow devil,” I snorted. “And I don’t know what there is to work out. I didn’t say anything untrue, so I’m not going to apologise. He’s just being difficult, and so wrapped up in his obsession with the Mage that he won’t even help me look into what happened.” Wellbelove sighed, but I didn’t stop. “He promised to help me, you know. It’s my _mother_. He knows I won’t go to the goatherd without him. He’s being incredibly childish.”

This was one of those classic moments where I say things I don’t entirely mean, rather than admit that I’m a prick and pushed him away and was overly harsh with him.

“I think he’s just weighing things over. He gets quiet like this, when he needs to think.”

“Snow doesn’t think,” I scoffed. Then, “what does he have to think about?”

“Things aren’t exactly turning out like Simon thought they would when he was eleven,” she said softly, before changing the subject.

I still don’t think she’s right — I seriously cannot believe that Snow needs time to _think_ — but even if she is, why does his thinking mean he’s not talking to me? Merlin, he even talks to _Niall_.

We’re all in the room — Niall, Dev, Snow and I — because of rain and the fact that someone (probably almost definitely Marcus) set off fireworks in the library. Snow has his headphones in and has been studiously ignoring us, which is impressive, considering this room is large, but not large enough for four grown boys to ignore each other. But he did say hello to Niall when he came in.

“I’m just saying, the Killers are objectively the best band. _Mr. Brightside_ is art,” Niall says, and I roll my eyes.

“I’m serious! Put it on, put it on right now.”

“No,” I say, tucking my feet up underneath me on the bed.

“Please? Come on.”

“I’m sick of that song,” I respond.

“That’s what Craig says,” Niall says, sighing sadly, and Dev snorts. Niall good-naturedly ignores him.

“Just one play. Put it on.”

“Snow has headphones on. It’s rude to play competing music,” I say, gesturing at him. Niall wanders over to where Snow is huffing away at his homework and peers over his shoulder at the iPod laying on the desk.

“I didn’t know you like Oasis,” Niall says.

“Hm?” Snow says, looking up, then grins. “Oh, yeah. They’re not bad.”

“Go on, give us a listen,” Niall says, reaching for one of the head buds. Snow pulls one out and hands it over, and Niall leans against the desk, puts one in, then grins.

“I love Oasis,” he says, and Snow nods.

“This is my favourite,” he responds, turning slightly to look at Niall. For some reason, all of Snow’s shittiness toward Niall from last year seems to have evaporated.

Or maybe it’s just transferred to me.

Maybe Snow is one of those people who always needs someone to hate, and my turn has just come back around. I guess I could get that. I’m the same way.

“Merlin, you’re so Northern,” I drawl. “I get Snow — he was born in Lancashire — but what’s your excuse, Niall? You’re Irish.”

“I’m not from Lancashire,” Snow says, frowning. All eyes turn to him.

“Uh, have you heard yourself speak?” Dev asks. Snow flushes and shakes his head.

“I grew up there and in London, but I wasn’t born there. I’m from Wales.”

“You’re _Welsh_?” Dev says, even as my stomach flips over. He’s Welsh? How did I never know this? Why is this making me feel horrifyingly warm things?

“I mean, I assume,” Snow says, suddenly bashful. “I got dropped at a hospital in Wales. Wasn’t even a day old, so we figure they didn’t travel far, so I was probably born there. I mean, I guess my parents could have been English, but…” he trails off. “I dunno. Just always thought I probably was.”

“You look Welsh,” Dev says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“I, for one,” Niall says, grinning, “welcome this news. Finally. The English in the room no longer outnumber us.”

“It’s just _Wales_ ,” Dev says, rolling his eyes. “He’s still British.”

“But not English,” Niall quipps. “Don’t try to oppress Snow and me by erasing our culture.”

“Oh who cares, you’re all still white,” I snap. I’m trying very hard to figure out why the idea of Snow being Welsh is cute, and also trying to fight down the desire to bite Niall for the fact that Snow is grinning up at him, looking relaxed as can be.

“Really?” Dev says. “Baz have you looked in a mirror? You’re like, the whitest person I know.”

“Only because—” Snow starts, then suddenly stops, his ears flushing pink. I have no idea what he was about to say, but I’m sure the word ‘vampire’ was in there. “I just mean, he’s Arabic or Spanish or something. Aren’t you?”

There are a thousand things I could say about how utterly wrong he is on every account, but he’s actually speaking to me directly, so I swallow my words for the first time in my life.

“Egyptian. My mother was Egyptian,” I respond, and Snow nods, his eyes lingering on me. And then, just as the moment has started, he seems to remember that he’s pissed at me, and shuts down.

“I’m going to the library,” he says, pulling out his headphones and standing up. His whole demeanour has changed.

“Hold up, I’m going that way,” Dev calls, grabbing his bag and flipping it over his shoulder. Snow waits for him patiently, his face clear, but the second he glances at me he grows tense again.

The door closes behind them, leaving Niall and me in an unexpected silence.

“Simon Snow, Welsh,” he says quietly. “The Greatest Mage. The Chosen One. Simon Snow, Sheep Shagger.”

I glare at him.

“I will bite you,” I snap.

A pillow comes flying at my face.

 

***

 

It was hard enough being around Simon Snow when he was cheery and golden and beautiful. It was a struggle, but one I was good at handling. Even when we became friends, I managed to deal with it.

But it’s entirely different to have been friends with Simon Snow and existed for awhile in that sun, and then to have him suddenly revoke it, to have him ice me out.

And to use _music_ to do it.

He’s always got his iPod playing these days, like some kind of auditory barrier between us. It’s almost attached to him while we’re getting ready in the morning and while he’s trying to do homework. When he comes back huffy and upset over some class gone wrong. When he lays under the Yew tree with his head on his hands, staring up at nothing. When he curls up at night, the soft rhythms of his music lulling us both to sleep.

He always falls asleep with his headphones in, and every night I’m positive he’ll strangle himself in his sleep.

Somehow he’s taken a deep dive through my childhood iPod and cobbled together the strangest assortment of songs that he puts on heavy rotation. A lot of Beatles. (My father would love that.) Unexpected 2000s hits. Prince, oddly enough. Some of the songs he plays are my favourites — ones I’ve played regularly in the room and must have grown on him. Others are things that I only have for collection purposes. At least a few of them seem to have appeared straight from hell, because I absolutely did not put them on there.

But most of them?

Most of them are from my mum’s records. And I don’t think he even realises.

It’s all just so soft and brash and happy and comforting and unexpected and so entirely, utterly Simon. I’ve found myself smiling when these stupid songs come on, because they each feel like a small piece of him. Disgusting.

My vampire hearing is a curse, because when the room is quiet and Snow has his headphones in, I can still hear whatever he’s playing. I fall asleep to the muted sounds of Simon & Garfunkel most nights, and now I wonder if I can fall asleep without _Homeward Bound_.

Some nights it’s Radiohead, and those are the nights I really wish he would talk to me.

It seems to help him sleep, though. He has less nightmares, I think. And as a result we both wake up less throughout the night.

Except for tonight, that is.

“No,” he whispers from across the room. “No no no no. Shit. Shit.”

I blink awake in the darkness and glance across to Snow’s bed, where he’s sitting, wand out, staring down at his headphones. The casing has been peeling away from the wire for a bit now, and the once white rubber has been stained by some unknown dark substance that I haven’t dared ask about. But now they lay mangled, the wires and electronics stripped bare and almost completely disconnected.

Snow looks torn between crying and killing something.

“What did you do?” I croak, sitting up. Snow stares at me alarm. He clearly didn’t mean to wake me.

“They’re broken,” he says glumly. They’re the first words he’s spoken directly and only to me in weeks. “I tried to fix it and I made it worse.”

“Magic doesn’t work well on technology,” I say, pushing back my blankets and flicking on the lamp. “How did they even get like that?”

“Goblins,” he says with a sigh. “Remember how they jumped me on the way back to school? I dropped my sword and they caught me by surprise so I kind of...” he pulls the iPod headphones across his neck and makes a gagging nose. “They’ve been on their last leg since then.”

“You garrotted a goblin with headphones?”

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic. “I tried to take care of them since they’re yours, but...” He sighs and unplugs them from the iPod. “Here,” he says, thrusting it at me. “Thanks for letting me borrow it. I didn’t mess up anything with that, don’t worry.”

I stare at it.

“Snow, it’s yours. I don’t want it back.”

“What’s the point?” he asks with a small shrug. “Can’t listen to it now.”

I sigh. Sometimes he is blindingly stupid.

Padding to my desk, I pull it open and rummage around until I retrieve one of my many pairs of headphones. These are black, and substantially hardier. Also, they won’t show blood.

“Here,” I say, tossing them to him. “That’s the last free pair. I’m going to start charging you.”

Snow stares down at the headphones with an unreadable expression. I hate that this is almost a relief, seeing him like this. He’s sad and clearly not doing well, but at least he’s _talking_ to me normally. All I want is to sit behind him on the bed and pull him into my arms and hook my chin over his shoulder and ask him to put on his favourite song for me.

He makes me want to do unspeakably soft things.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and plugs the headphones in. He settles on earbud in his ear and looks at me. “Sorry I’ve been a shit friend. I know you just want to find out what happened to your Mum.”

He blinks, and I blink back.

 _Friend_.

“It’s fine,” I say. And I mean it. “Sorry I’m... me.”

He lets out a soft snort and shakes his head.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind… you.”

Snow smiles at me — a real, genuine smile — and my breath comes back. Apparently it’s been missing for weeks.

“Cheers,” he says, holding up the other earbud before sticking it back in his ear. He flips through the iPod and clicks something, and then I hear the music start, sudden and unexpected. Something Snow has never played before — at least not while I’ve been around. It’s one of my absolute favourites, and I’ve never played it in front of him, because it’s… it’s not a casual listening song. I listen to it when I’m alone, and let it seep into my chest and curl around my melancholy.

He settles back into bed, his legs pulled up and the iPod settled in the nook of his arm, and I get back in my own and turn off the light.

Snow and I both fall asleep to the sound of _Hallelujah_.

 

***

 

“Be polite.”

“I’m always polite, Snow,” I drawl, crossing my arms. “And I’ll even be nice.”

“And don’t be weird if she cries.”

“I’m not a complete monster,” I retort, but Snow doesn’t even seem to hear me. He’s just come across a baby goat, and has scooped it up into his arms.

Revolting. Adorably horrifying.

“‘Lo Simon!” a female voice calls from up ahead, and Snow cheerily waves back, despite his arms being full of goat.

I’ve only seen Ebb at a distance before. Most students don’t interact with her, and she’ll come up to the school for events or holidays, but I’ve never really had reason to pay attention before.

She’s younger than I had assumed. Around Fiona’s age, with sharp, sloping cheekbones and stick straight white hair. With her large jumper and staff, she looks like some kind of Nordic clothing model.

“Who’s your friend here?” she calls out, making her way over to us. The goats move out of her way, even though they’re practically tripping Snow and I. My trousers are going to reek after this, and I don’t even want to think about my shoes.

“This is Baz,” Snow says, gesturing with his head. “He, er… he wanted to ask you some questions.”

Ebb comes level with us and stares at me with deep blue eyes. She’s a large woman — almost my height, probably on par with Snow — and it catches me off guard.

“Aye, I ‘spose he does,” she says softly, then smiles. “How about a cuppa, boys? Was just gonna put the kettle on, come on in then.”

Simon trails after her toward a barn — does she live in the barn? — the baby goat still in his arms making a valiant effort to chew on his hair. I trail after him, because what else am I going to do? The goat looks over his shoulder and glares at me, and I have a wild, primal urge to bare my fangs at it and tell it to stop trying to claim his curls.

The Pettys are a weird family, and nothing Ebb has done so far has disproved that. Every few generations they crank out a real humdinger of a mage, but on the whole, they never _do_ anything. There’s never been a Petty headmaster of Watford, and they don’t even sit on the Coven. They just keep to their family house in Peckham and… do things. I guess. Like goat herding.

“S’nice to finally meet you, Basil,” Ebb says once we’re seated on an ugly chintz sofa inside. Part of the barn has been converted into a living quarter, and it’s cosy enough, I suppose, even though it smells of goat. There’s a large stove in the middle and throw blankets all over, and a series of small decorative goat figures are lined up lovingly on a shelf. She even has a television. I wonder if the Mage knows. Ebb looks like the type to whack him with her staff if he tried to take it away.

“Though, I ‘spose we’ve met before, but not while you’d remember,” she says, measuring out tea into three mugs. She hands me a Tottenham F.C. one with a chip in it. “You were a small thing back then. Hid behind your mum the whole time. Mistress Pitch said you ‘didn’t like people.’ I told her I didn’t mind, I don’t like people much either.”

My eyes bounce between her and Snow. Maybe getting her to talk will be easier than I expected.

“You knew my mother?” I ask, taking a tentative sip of the tea. PG Tips. Gross.

Ebb nods and Snow holds out a biscuit for a goat, completely unconcerned that it may bite off his fingers.

“Not well. But she gave me this job. She was incredibly kind to me, your mum. Helped me out quite a bit, especially after my brother Nicky passed.” Ebb stops and sniffles slightly, and Snow shoots me a warning look. _Nicky_. Nicky the vampire. “I suppose she was trying to keep me out of trouble, but still. Always told me to not worry about what came next. Your mum told me I was perfectly alright just as I was.”

This is a touching sentiment, and one that does not sound anything at all like the woman I’ve grown up hearing about, which puts me on edge. I set my mug down on a nearby table and lean forward slightly.

“She’s why I’ve come, actually,” I say, delicately. “She and… your brother.”

Ebb’s face hardens and darkens, and all her soft Nordic cheer slips away.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” she says. “No matter what people say. I haven’t spoken to him. And it’s not a crime to miss him. He was my _brother_. He was my twin. I didn’t go with him, but I can still miss him.”

Snow looks on the verge of panic.

“I’m not concerned about that,” I say bluntly. “Of course you miss him. You’d be mad not to. He was your brother.”

Ebb looks thrown off momentarily, and then gives a hesitant, watery chuckle.

“You’re as sharp as your mum,” she says, swallowing. “And just as dark, I suppose.”

I nod.

“Thank you,” I say, even though I’m not sure if it was a compliment. I uncross my legs and lean forward a bit. “I believe you haven’t spoken with him. But I wonder if you might know where to find him.”

Ebb shakes her head so suddenly that a baby goat bleats and runs off.

“You don’t want to go down that path,” she says, her tone hard. “What Nicky did—”

“Is not why I’m here,” I cut in. “I think he knows something about my mother’s death, something that _someone_ has been trying to hide for years. I just want to ask him questions. No one ever needs to know.”

“He didn’t do it. He would never hurt Mistress Pitch. I asked Mistress Mary in the nursery, and she swore to me he wasn’t involved. He didn’t want to hurt people.”

“I believe you,” I say, sitting back. “My aunt Fiona thinks so as well. I trust you. But I still have questions.”

“I haven’t spoken to him, no matter what people say,” she repeats, and I have to close my eyes. Be gentle. Don’t push. Be gentle. Don’t push.

“Ebb,” Snow says, leaning forward. His voice is soft, his eyes concerned, and he puts a freckled hand on her shoulder. “No one talks about your brother, I promise. No one whispers about you, really.”

“Really?” she asks, surprised. “After everything…” she trails off, and shakes her head. “No. Simon, I’m sorry, but I don’t want you messing with this. You neither, Basilton. Your mum would kill me if she knew. There’s plenty of people who wouldn’t want you two poking at this nest.”

Snow shoots me a look that clearly indicates I should give up, shouldn’t press more, but I can’t. Not now. Not when we’re so close. And Ebb knows something. I know she does.

“Please just tell me where to find him,” I repeat. “I… I need to know. It’s not for me. It’s for my mother. I know there are… people who don’t want me to know,” I say, looking up to meet her eyes. She blinks at me, and something close to understanding passes between us. “And I’m prepared to take the risks. If you could get answers — could get understanding — wouldn’t you want it?”

Ebb doesn’t take her eyes from me, and it’s an extremely uncomfortable, tense moment. I can _feel_ her magic. Not in the way I feel Snow’s — his is messy, explosive, leaking. But hers is a steady thrum. A sharp, crackling smell in the air I can almost taste.

“Look at me, I’m a mess,” Ebb blubbs finally, and then sniffs. “Simon, I left my scarf out by the fence. Would you get it for me?”

Snow looks confused at the sudden shift in conversation, but he’s as affable and eager to please as a dog, so he nods and shoves his way through the sea of goats and out of the barn. As soon as he’s gone, Ebb turns to me.

“Peckham. Christmas. It’s the only time I know where he’ll be.” She’s crying, big, wet drops dripping down her cheeks. “I don’t talk to him. I just know he’ll be there.”

I feel thunderstruck, but nod. I start to thank her, but she interrupts.

“I don’t want Simon there. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

I nod. I can make that promise easily. Ebb sniffles, and then leads forward.

“I stay out of things. I like to keep to myself. But if you’re determined to get answers…” she looks uneasy.

“Someone knows something,” I say, and she nods.

“Someone knows everything,” she says, which is the most chilling and cryptic thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. “That person isn’t me. But I can feel things, sometimes. Big bursts of magic and the like. It leaves a residue, you know.”

I don’t know. I don’t follow this at all.

“Wales,” Ebb says, glancing toward the door. “About seventeen years ago my bones lit up with a powerful kind of fire. I don’t know what it was, but I could feel it all the way from Wales.”

“Wales?” I repeat. “That had to be—”

“That kind of magic leaves a mark. A feeling. And it popped up at Watford long before Simon did. Around the time your mother passed, in fact.”

What the fuck. What the actual _fuck_ is she trying to tell me?

“I don’t—” I start, but Ebb shakes her head.

“You look so much like your mum. I hope you figure things out, Basilton. For her.”

I nod, mute.

Simon appears at the door a moment later, holding a scarf covered in mud, and kicks up a ruckus.

“Your scarf got dropped in the mud, and I think a goat ate it. I tried to clean it, but—” he gestures at the scarf, which is slightly smoking.

“No worries!” Ebb says cheerily, taking the scarf from him. “Now, help me stoke this fire. It’s colder than frozen tits out there, I’d say.”

Snow laughs and gathers wood from the corner, and I look on in mute fascination.

I can’t begin to understand what Ebb is trying to tell me about Wales. Is she saying she felt when Simon burst into the world? Is she powerful enough to feel that? And what’s that bit about feeling the residual at Watford?

I’m an excellent multi tasker, but I can only focus on one mystery at a time, and right now that mystery is my mother. So I pull a Snow and shove the rest of Ebb’s cryptic, oblique warnings to the back of my mind, and focus on the task at hand.

I know where to find Nicodemus Petty.

And I’m going to get answers out of him, even if I have to set him on fire.

 

***

 

“Humdrum. Baz, get up, it’s the Humdrum.”

Snow shakes me awake and I gasp, all of my senses suddenly on fire as I try to take stock of where I am and what’s happening. There’s a horrid dry, sucking feeling pulling at my insides, and even though I’m breathing it’s like the air has gone stale and—

“We have to get up, the Humdrum is here.”

Snow is pushing back his blankets and tripping toward the door as my body shocks into consciousness, and I rip my own covers off.

“We have to get out there,” he says, yanking the door open. He’s barefoot, just wearing thin flannel pyjama pants and a vest. It’s December.

“Take this,” I croak, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair and tossing it at him. I sleep in socks and thick jumpers; I’ll be fine. He catches it easily and barely spares it a second look before pulling my leather jacket over his broad shoulders. He’s single minded right now; there’s no room for anything else in his brain.

Lights are turning on all over the school, and a handful of students come spilling into the courtyard. Snow is turning around, his eyes roving everywhere, looking for whatever Dark Creature is coming after us now.

THe Humdrum has never attacked at night before.

Somehow that makes this all feel so much worse.

“Snow, I don’t—”

But he doesn’t hear me, because he’s taken off running toward the Wood.

“Snow!” I shout, darting after him. Someone yells my name from behind me, but I don’t look back, just keep following this idiot across the Lawn and toward the Wood. The drawbridge is down.

Something is seriously wrong.

The sucking feeling grows stronger the closer we get to the Wood, and I’m shivering. My socks are soaked through from the damp of the grass, and my jumpers aren’t enough to keep the chill out.

I’m also incredibly scared.

“Simon!” I call, just as he dashes into the wood. “Aleister Crowley, Simon, hold on, can you—”

I follow him, using my senses to track him down the path he’s taking, the one that leads toward a clearing with seven oak trees surrounding it. I don’t like this clearing; it’s creepy. It makes me feel anxious and uncomfortable when I go near it, like everything I fear most is waiting for me, just beyond the protective ring of trees.

Snow is standing in the middle of it, staring at a woman in white.

She floats off the ground by a few inches, and she’s so pale, so white she’s almost gleaming. Long, straight white hair flows from her scalp and down across her body. At some point it turns into a veil, streaming down and covering her like a gown. In the space of one blink and the next she’s beautiful, then haggard. Young, then old. Her fingers clawed, then long and slender. Her feet barefoot and pale, then cloven. It’s like she’s constantly changing, never existing fully in one form.

And she’s staring right at Snow.

“Simon, get away from her,” I call, bursting into the clearing. But Snow doesn’t hear me. He’s too focused on the white figure.

“All alone,” the woman is rasping to Snow. I appear to have joined in the middle of a conversation. “Always alone, Chosen One.”

Snow pulls out his sword and settles into a fighting position.

“What are you?” he growls, darting forward to hack at the woman. The sword goes through her and she doesn’t even blink.

“You cannot kill me, Chosen One,” she intones. Her voice sounds like wind and the deep rumble of thunder and whispers coming from behind me. “I cannot die so easily. How difficult that must be for you; you, a boy made to kill. A boy born for bloodshed. What does a boy like you do with something he cannot maim?”

Snow grunts again and swings his sword, but it’s useless. It glides through her again.

“I have seen your heart, Chosen One. I’ve seen your fears. What you see at night, what you feel in the dark. When you are alone.”

“Fuck off,” he grunts, reaching for his wand.

But it’s not there. He left it in our room.

“Simon—” I dart forward, coming up just behind him, and the white figure turns her attention on me.

“You cannot help him, monster,” she says, and I tense. “You cannot help anyone, can you? You could not help your mother. You can barely help yourself. You are weak; weighed down by your own insecurities. What use could you be to him? He is light, and you are dark.”

“Stop it!” Snow shouts. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

“Simon? Baz?”

There’s a clatter of noise behind us, and Niall and Agatha burst into the clearing, panting. Wellbelove has sticks in her hair, and Niall is wearing his bathrobe and slippers.

“Get back,” I shout, shaking my head. “Get out of here—”

But Niall has already run toward us, Wellbelove hot on his heels, both of their wands out.

Niall murumers something under his breath and a spell goes singing past me, soaring right through the white figure and crashing against a tree behind her. She turns her milky eyes on him.

“Did you think that would work? You can do better. You know you can,” the figure says, and Niall pales. “You need to be better. Or else people will keep leaving you, won’t they? You’ll be all alone. Unloved. Untouched. No family.”

Niall’s eyes are wide, and he shakes his head.

“No, no, that’s not true,” he says.

“But it is,” the figure responds. “You are alone. And you know you always will be. Sometimes at night you acknowledge this truth, and you remember a time when you weren’t. When you weren’t alone in your mind, in your body.” She blinks her white eyes, and Niall looks terrified. “Sometimes you miss the demon that lived inside you, don’t you? You miss a time when you didn’t have to feel the gaping emptiness of your life.”

“Leave him alone,” I snarl, shooting a bolt of fire at the figure, but it, of course, goes through her, landing on the forest floor and lighting it up. Wellbelove screams.

“Perhaps it would be better if you turned the fire on yourself, like your mother did,” the figure says, turning back to me. “It would be easier, wouldn’t it? To rid the world of your mistake. It’s what she would have wanted. It would be easier now, to do it, instead of having to live like this: always wanting. Always hungry. You want so much, don’t you? You want _too_ much.”

“Oh, Crowley,” I say, tension easing from my shoulders as realisation hits me. “It’s a _phobus_. It’s feeding on fear and self doubt.” I let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Brilliant. Bring it on. I’m an expert at insecurity. You can’t do any worse to me than I do to myself.”

Snow swings at it again, but the phobus doesn’t blink.

“How is it doing this?” he asks. “I feel terrified, and embarrassed, and just… awful,” he grunts, swinging away fruitlessly.

“Do you think he’d be proud of you?” the phobus asks Snow. “He wouldn’t be. Not unless you destroy me. He only cares about your successes, doesn’t he? He never understands your failures. Because you’re a tool to him. A weapon. Not a boy.”

“Why would you say that?” Snow shouts, scrunching up his face in a way that I know means he’s trying to get his magic to flow.

“Snow, it’s not real,” I say, moving close to him, so I can stand just behind him and reach out a hand to his shoulder. “She’s pulling all your fears and doubts from your own mind, and feeding off of them. The more you give in, the stronger she gets. It’s not real.”

The phobus laughs, and seems to grow larger, shine brighter. It’s being fed.

“He won’t listen to you,” she tells me. “He doesn’t need you, and he doesn’t want you. How could he? How could you ever think he would love you back? He is everything good, and you are an abomination. How could someone so alive love something dead?”

“Oi, fuck off!” Niall shouts, slinging another spell at her. His voice is shaking slightly, but I’m grateful for him. My entire body goes numb and I snatch my hand back from Snow’s shoulder. Fuck. Fuck. Absolutely fuck. Snow isn’t looking at me. Holy fuck. I just got outed by a demon.

I just got outed by the Humdrum.

“How do you fight a phobus?” Wellbelove shouts as she throws out another spell, snapping me out of my spiral.

“I don’t know,” I respond shaking my head. I feel weak, and dizzy. Why won’t Snow _look_ at me? Maybe he didn’t understand. “I don’t know if you can. They just feed on you until you’re empty and you shrivel up, but I think they’re relatively harmless if you can keep yourself from getting too scared and upset.”

Wellbelove shakes her head.

“I don’t have any self doubt, so maybe she’ll choke on me,” she says, striding forward, looking fierce and commanding, even in her nightshirt. “Do your best, bitch.”

“You mistake your lack of emotions for confidence,” the figue says, turning on Wellbelove. “You’re broken, girl. You’re broken inside, and you may never be right. I have looked inside you, and there is nothing. You are ice; frozen through. You feel nothing, and you love nothing, and you wonder if you will ever be able to love. You are broken.”

“That’s— that’s not— that’s uncomfortably accurate,” Wellbelove says, faltering.

“It’s not real,” I repeat. I feel manic. Strung out. “Back away, it’s not real. If we don’t feed her, she’ll leave us be. She’s using our fears against us.”

“She’s really fucking good at it,” Niall mutters, but he’s looking better. Steadier.

Snow isn’t.

His face is pinched up and his brow is furrowed, and the fingers around his sword are almost white.

“It’s not — that’s not what I’m scared of,” he spits out. “She’s wrong. I don’t think that.”

“You do,” the phobus says. Her voice never changes tone and it sets my teeth on edge. “You know it’s true. The Mage does not care for you, Simon Snow. He never has, and he never will. He sees you as a convenience. He cares only for what you can do for him. No one wants Simon Snow. Not the Mage. Not your parents. Not the blood eater. They only want The Chosen One.”

“Snow,” I say warningly. My heart is breaking for him, and I want to tear this fucking phobus’s head off. I hate this. I hate that she’s saying the exact same things to him that I’ve said. I hate that I tapped into his fear without even knowing it. “Snow, control this. It’s not real.”

“What use is a Chosen One who cannot do magic?” she says, and suddenly she grows closer to him. Something is happening to Snow — he’s growing weaker. Paler. His sword lowers slightly. “You need magic, Simon Snow. You need magic because it’s all you have. All you are. What is left of Simon Snow when the magic is gone? Who would want Simon Snow without his power?”

“Snow, listen to me,” I shout as he falls to his knees. I want to go to him, but there’s some kind of force keeping me back, and I can’t tell if it’s him or her. “Simon, it’s not real. These are your doubts and fears. Simon, _look at me_.”

He stares at me, his blue eyes blown wide in terror.

“What will the Mage do with you when you cannot defeat the Humdrum?” Snow drops his head to his hands and starts rocking back and forth, a growl building in his throat. “What good will you be when he loses his use for you? He’ll never speak to you again. He’ll never look at you again. You are expendable, Simon Snow. You are not special, and you are alone.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.

“They will never want you.”

“No.”

“They will never love you.”

“No, no.”

“You are unnatural. A failure. A mistake.”

“Please, stop, no.”

“Simon, please look at me! She’s not real. Simon!”

“He isn’t your friend. He doesn’t care for you. He only uses you. He only pities you.”

“No!”

A great, terrifying scream pulls itself from Snow’s throat and his head is thrown back as the clearing lights up with blue fire. It ripples around us, whooshing through the clearing and I duck instinctively, but it goes right through me, leaving me unscathed.

Not the phobus though. She goes up in a pillar of blue flame, and then the clearing is empty. Silent, save the crackling of the fire that I caused, and the sound of Snow’s heavy breaths.

He’s still kneeling, staring at the ground, breathing hard.

“Simon—” I say, racing toward him, and he blinks up at me for a moment, then uses his sword to brace his weight and pulls himself into a standing position. He looks worn out inside, but his eyes are bright. He shrugs his shoulders, the soft leather of my jacket rolling with the motion. I’d forgotten he was wearing it. He should always wear it. He should just have it, because it belongs on those shoulders.

“She’s gone.”

I nod.

“It — it wasn’t true. What she said. She was pulling from your fears.”

He stares at me. There’s something there. Something in his eyes. His terror from the moment before is gone, and he looks like he’s getting ready for another fight.

“But she told the truth about what we fear, yeah? What she said. Those are things we think.”

“Uh,” I respond, because I’m praying he’s not going to bring this around to the fucking demon telling me he won’t love me, _while he was standing right there_.

No shit. Like I needed a demon to tell me that.

‘Yes or no, Baz.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice tight. “But it’s nonsense, Snow. You heard it. She just rattled off anything she could think of. I hardly think it matters _what_ she was saying, so you shouldn’t read into it. I mean, Crowley, not even you could—”

“Oh, fuck this,” he growls. He throws his sword to the side and then reaches toward me with both hands, grabs my shirt, drags me in and kisses me.

My world stops for a moment.

Two months ago I came back from football practise tired, muddy, wet and in a bad mood. I could hear Snow’s music even as I opened the door. Michael Jackson. _The Way You Make Me Feel_. Snow had his back to the door and was focused on his homework, but his pen tapped against his cheek in time with the beat, his head bobbing gently, his lips softly mouthing the words.

I’d stopped and watched him a moment, just enjoying the sight of him at peace, happy and calm and soft. I let my mind wander in a way I don’t often, and I wondered what it would be like — feel like — to have those lips moving against mine.

Simon Snow’s lips are blazing a trail of heat through my body, and Michael Jackson is playing in my head, and I don’t think I could wrap my arms tighter around him if I tried. I’m never letting go of him, never letting go of this moment, never stepping away from the blistering warmth of the supernova shining in my arms.

“Right,” he says, pulling away, panting slightly and grinning. “I think I might be a bit gay.”

“I hate you,” I say, and kiss him again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS FEATURED IN THIS SECTION:**
> 
> [Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours](https://open.spotify.com/track/4CB13d6Igb94cWMOQWY3JF?si=PDy22x9hQYGLDwBhlYCVNA) \- Stevie Wonder
> 
> [Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da](https://open.spotify.com/track/1gFNm7cXfG1vSMcxPpSxec?si=oJgXfKbRQAm7AA3n8BnKKA) \- The Beatles
> 
> [Making Your Mind Up](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Azn2vpP3Sbs8qAG8e1KUc?si=q9rpsr14RpeIyZgSBsHkPA) \- Bucks Fizz
> 
> [Don't Look Back In Anger](https://open.spotify.com/track/7CVYxHq1L0Z4G84jTDS6Jl?si=uPDTIDaoS9eA0rlauUTkpg) \- Oasis
> 
> [Mr. Brightside](https://open.spotify.com/track/7oK9VyNzrYvRFo7nQEYkWN?si=PUheXyjjR6WXma5SXP146Q) \- The Killers
> 
> [Homeward Bound](https://open.spotify.com/track/03VXrViYqJpdhuBEV0p0ak?si=O6t0wHoNRleCoTKP3f9Bbw) \- Simon & Garfunkle
> 
> [Hallelujah](https://open.spotify.com/track/74X1epeRufHckhuX1KFD04?si=SN_M4nlHRdSt-vVVchDexA) \- Jeff Buckley
> 
> The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson


	12. Who Loves The Sun? | Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR SEVEN, PART 2: Magical make outs, midnight crisps and Christmas Capers. Baz tries to be patient and Simon learns to communicate. Merlin the magical ferret, a shitty soulmate AU, and a spot of tea and possession. The gang says Welsh words, Dev feels a feeling, and Malcolm Grimm descends into madness. Penelope Bunce does one last job. You want a hocho?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Simon's  **[Goblin Garotting](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/1MF75zy3ne8pPDn4g1vbIx?si=N08pHyyNSYCCaB-4tmgvwQ)**  playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) playlist on Spotify.
> 
>  **Chapter Title:**[Who Loves The Sun?](https://open.spotify.com/track/1rJi8cf8OWsrX4CqBnMSoQ?si=KNL_3l_bSYyEDxJB5oiWzQ) — The Velvet Underground
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello and welcome back! Thank you for your patience with this chapter. We didn't get along. There were a lot of fights. Also I watched Ocean's 8 about three times while watching this chapter.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta readers and editors and everyone who listened to me rant about this bitch. Happy birthday, Iain. There’s a joke in here just for you.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading along and being so wonderful. I live for your comments and they make me so, so warm! Always feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com/). xx - Ban
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** semi-graphic description of dead deer.

“Can we please stop for hot chocolate?”

I close my eyes and try to brace myself against the frigid night air, and sigh. I can see my breath. Normally my internal body temperature is colder than the air around me, but not so right now. It’s fucking freezing.

“No,” I tell Niall, for the third time since we left the flat. “We’re on a stake out for a vampire. We cannot get hot chocolate.”

“Mate, I’m going to freeze my brass off. Look, there’s a Starbucks right there. We can see the street and everything. Just, please. This is torture.”

He’s right. It is torture. I’m freezing and cramped and we’ve been waiting on this side street in Peckham for hours, waiting for Nicodemus fucking Petty to show up. It’s going on midnight at this rate.

“Fine,” I snap, breaking under the pressure of Niall’s wide eyes. “Fine, but I’m staying here.”

“You want a hocho?”

“Please don’t.” Niall grins and me, and I ignore him. “Something with caffeine. Tea maybe?”

Niall nods and hurries off across the street toward the overlit Starbucks, and I shove my hands into the pocket of my black coat and try to think warm thoughts. I’m wearing my tailored coat tonight, because for once I’m not trying to look like a punk, but I miss my leather jacket. It’s so fucking warm.

I’d kill for an ounce of Snow’s natural body warmth right now.

My fingers clutch around my mobile and I pull it out, even though I know I won’t have any messages from him. He stole Wellbelove’s phone last night for a very awkward phone call and then sent me several cheery Christmas texts this morning, but I don’t expect anything beyond that.

He also won’t be checking in on our progress, since he doesn’t know we’re here.

I feel slightly bad about that. But it’s not like I owe him the knowledge. I did make a promise, after all. And there was hardly any time to talk about it, anyway. After the kiss, that is.

That fucking kiss.

That night, in the clearing with the phobus, the Mage and other students showed up pretty quickly after Simon exploded the demon. They’d felt the blast and come running, and then the Mage had taken Simon back to his office and kept him there for hours — asking him questions and prying into what happened. I’d stumbled back to the dorm with the help of Niall, who had deliberately said nothing, and Wellbelove, who looked like she was going to burst.

I stayed up as long as I could, but eventually I nodded off, only waking to the sound of creaking floorboards.

“Are you awake?” Snow whispered, and I wondered how long he’d been loitering there, hoping I’d wake up. In the back of my mind I made a note to tell him he can always wake me up if he needs to, but that didn’t make it out. I was too tired to speak to him — too tired to form any kind of thought, really, except for the intense need to feel his warmth — so I pressed back against the wall and lifted the corner of my blanket.

For once, he didn’t make me spell it out, and climbed in with me.

Looking back, I wish I’d taken a moment to realise what was happening and soak it in and delight in it and ruminate on the insanity of it all, the sheer unlikeness of having Simon Snow in my bed, in my arms, smelling of smoke and magic as he curled up into my side and put his head against my shoulder and let me drop my arm around him.

But instead I just sighed and went back to sleep, and in the morning he was gone, and an unshakeable sadness settled over me.

Dev headed me off at breakfast to ask about what had happened, and Bunce joined us shortly with more details — apparently when Snow exploded the phobus, all the energy and fear and anxiety inside of her had to go somewhere…. So it settled on Watford.

Students spent the day crying. Others went mad with nervous energy, and Snow was nowhere to be seen, still cooped up with the Mage. Another dead spot opened up — this one closer to school than ever before — and everyone was on the cusp of a wobble. Dev and I tried to play football while Bunce and Niall got into an argument over the ethics of possessing dogs, and Wellbelove holed herself up somewhere, but no one could focus.

Everything felt raw and prickly and awful.

The Mage ended up cancelling classes for the rest of term and sent us home two weeks early — which I only found out when Snow appeared in the room after dinner to pack his duffle.

“The Mage asked the Wellbeloves to take me,” he said, not really looking at me. I nodded around the uncomfortable lump rising in my throat. I’d spent the day plotting a way to get him to London with me for Christmas, but that would take time we didn’t have. “Dr. Wellbelove was here to talk about the phobus energy, and he’s just going to take Aggie and me back tonight.”

“So this is goodbye, then?” I asked, stiff. I was on the other side of the room, leaning against the door, trying to look disinterested. I’d even put on Gang of Four’s _Damaged Goods_ to emphasise my cool, disconnected vibe. I crossed my arms and everything. If he was going to blow me off, I was going to make it exceedingly clear that I did not care.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, then flushed. “Listen, would you… I’ll text you, yeah? Aggie will let me borrow her phone. Or call?”

“That could be nice,” I’d said, blinking slowly.

Snow nearly melted in relief, then pulled his arm up to rub at the back of his neck, like he was contemplating something. Then he crossed the room.

I knew it was coming, and yet I still wasn’t prepared for Snow to take my hand and close the distance between us.

It wasn’t a long kiss; it was short, a quick burst of energy and emotion before he pulled back, grinning shyly, and then it was me reaching out, grabbing for him, trying to drag him back in to beat back the cold and the doubt and the fear.

I wish he were here now.

He’d tell me this was an awful idea and then he’d blow something up and everything would go to shit but at least I’d be warm.

Movement down the alley catches my eye, and I have to do a double take to be sure what it is I’m actually seeing. A deer. Trotting up the alley toward a rambling, sagging townhouse that I know belongs to the Petty family.

What is a deer doing in the middle of Peckham?

The deer disappears into the shadows around the Petty’s back garden, and then there’s no more movement. Are they there already? I didn’t see anyone, but —

“Here,” Niall says, appearing beside me and shoving a coffee cup into my hands. I sniff at it and make a face.

“It’s coffee.” I hate coffee. Everyone knows I hate coffee. Niall nods.

“Yeah, but it’s sweet. Something called a mocha breve. Try it, you said you wanted caffeine.”

I take a sip of it unwillingly — I really do hate coffee, but I’m freezing. But it’s fucking delicious. Absolutely delightful.

Fuck Niall.

“Any signs?” he asks, taking a sip of his hot chocolate (child) and nodding toward the house. He’s a good sort, I suppose. Getting me coffee, coming along on this absolutely insane trip — on Christmas of all things. I didn’t want him to come, but as he’s staying with Fiona and I for the break, it was a bit difficult to wiggle out of it.

He’s persistent, when he wants to be.

“A deer just trotted up to their back garden,” I tell him, and he frowns.

“That had to be Ebb, right? She’s got some kind of animal power.”

“Does she?” I ask, surprised. Does everyone at Watford pay attention to the goatherd except for me?

“That’s what they say, at least. She’s supposed to be wicked powerful, and she always calls the goats in with magic,” Niall says, blowing on his paper cup. “She got into a dust up with the Mage a few years back about them, actually. One of the merwolves got a baby and she lost it.”

“Where was I?” I ask, shaking my head in amazement. How did I miss this? It should have been the highlight of my day.

Niall shrugs and takes another sip.

“I dunno. It was third year I think, so you were probably off being in crisis and mooning over Hollow or something.”

I regret telling Niall anything, but that would probably explain why I didn’t notice this. Someone fighting with the Mage would only have missed my notice if I was deep in a well of self-pity.

I think I rather like the goatherd.

“Why would she call up a deer though?” I muse aloud, before the obvious answer hits me.

It’s a Christmas present.

I blanche and glance at Niall. I only let him come because Nico allegedly had his teeth pulled out, and I didn’t think a broken, gelded vampire would be much of a risk, but I am relieved to know that he’ll at least have had a snack first.

“So what did Snow say about this?”

I glare at Niall.

“Nothing, because he doesn’t know and he doesn’t need to know.”

Niall shakes his head and blows on his cup again. It makes a judgemental whistling noise. “Two weeks and you’re already lying to your fella. Not a good start, mate.”

“He’s not my _fella_ —” I start, but Niall is tisking.

“Tell that to the demon he exploded for you.”

“He didn’t—”

“Give it up, he’s already on his way to being Mr. Snow-Pi—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, throwing out my arm to grab Niall. The distinct sound of a door closing is echoing throughout the night.

Ebb has gone inside.

“Wand out,” I whisper. “But look casual. I don’t want to threaten him from the start.”

Niall and I each pull our wands, then start forward down the alleyway, dodging bins and refuse of the street’s inhabitants. Just as we hit the Petty’s back gate, Niall takes in a sharp inhalation of air.

A ragged-looking blond man is crouched by the back gate, a knife in his hand, a dead deer before him. Blood is smeared around his mouth and all over his hands, and the deer’s blood is still warm, steaming up into the frigid night air.

My stomach gives a small lurch.

“Nicodemus,” I say, and he looks up, startled. How did he not hear us coming? His reflexes must be shit.

Or maybe he’s just not constantly alert like I am.

His eyes narrow immediately and then flick back down the alley. He straightens up, and at his full height he looks less ragged. More like a rougher version of his sister, in a respectable — if cheap — coat.

“My name is Tyrannus Basilton Pitch, and I’m here to talk to you about my mother.” I release my grip on the wand in my pocket and instead reach inside the box of cigarettes I nicked off of Fiona and pull one out, putting it in my mouth. Nico’s eyes track the movement, and when I light it with the tip of my fingers he takes a small step back.

I inhale deeply — I hate cigarettes, but needs must be met — and then pull the fag out of my mouth to exhale.

“Please, continue your dinner,” I say, gesturing at the dead deer at his feet. “We’ve just a few questions.”

I pass the cigarette to Niall and he takes it, inhaling deeply and then leaning back against the gate. He’s nervous — I can tell from his overly casual posture and the tight lines around his eyes — but he’s not making that clear to Nico. Good man.

Nico looks down at the deer and then matches my eyes. I’ve caught him by surprise and off guard. Good.

“Your sister thought you might be amenable to a little chat,” I say, gripping my coffee cup slightly tighter. “You see, I’m interested in who killed my mother.” I take a sip of the coffee and then meet his eyes. “And why she thought you were involved.”

“You know who killed her,” he says.

“Yes. But not who sent them. So tell me the rest.”

Nico looks uneasy, and his tongue pushes at his cheek. He must be worrying the holes were his teeth once were.

“Or what?” he asks, his stance relaxing. “Going to bite me, Mr. Pitch? Or use magic on me? Maybe set me on fire? Flames spread faster than you think, boyo. You haven’t set yourself alight yet, I highly doubt you’ll choose today.”

“Who says he’d have to do it?” Niall asks, and Nico’s eyes flick to him, then me. I smile slightly.

“Interesting move, cornering me at my sister’s house, accusing me of murder,” Nico says, laughing like something is funny. “No clue how you got her to help.”

“We have a mutual friend,” I say dismissively. “And no one is accusing you, Mr. Petty. We know you weren’t involved. But I suspect you know who was.”

“I might. Might be I was approached for a job. One I turned down,” he says, uncomfortably. “But why should I tell you? Life’s not so easy for me as it is for you, Mr. Pitch. Things don’t come for free.”

I look at the deer on the ground in front of us.

“You’ve already been paid.”

Nico blinks, licks his lips, and then shifts. He’s uncomfortable and unsure, and exactly where I want him.

“Curious that you come strolling up here with your little school friend. Does he know? Can’t imagine many do. They hardly wouldn’t allow it. Why _do_ they keep allowing it, I wonder? What—”

“Answer my question,” I say curtly, cutting him off. I’m not here to have my mind fucked with. The phobus did that enough for one month. “It wasn't you. It wasn’t the Humdrum. So who was it?”

Nico surveys me for a long, pregnant moment, and then laughs, shaking his limp blond hair. He looks like Iggy Pop — thin, hollow cheeks and leathery, dried out skin. Slightly unpleasant to look at for too long.

“It was one of you,” he says, grinning so widely I can see his teeth. “But I aint telling you his name. It’s not worth my life.”

“I’m quite prepared for that deer to have been your last meal,” I inform him, and Niall makes a small choking sound, like he’s surprised by the extent to which I’m willing to push this. I’m not really planning on killing Nico. Ebb would be devastated, and then Snow would kill me. But Nico doesn’t need to know that.

“I think you already know, kid,” Nico says. “There’s only one reason my sister would bring you here, and it’s if you already know.”

“I just need it confirmed,” I say, a strange fire building in my stomach.

“Well that confirmation didn’t come from me.”

“So tell me who it came from,” I snap back. I’m tired of talking in circles, of dancing around the point. We’re both talking about the Mage, but neither of us will just _say_ it.

“No one’s going to care. No one’s going to believe you. Your mother’s death is old news. Everything's about the Humdrum now, and there’s only one person keeping the Humdrum from gobbling us all up. Your word against the fate of the World of Mages.”

And there we are.

There’s the confirmation.

Niall hands me back the cigarette, and I take another long drag before flicking the ash off the end. Nico jumps slightly, and I drop the cigarette and grind it out in the muddy puddle next to me.

“You’re right,” I say grimly, adjusting my jacket. “There is only one person who can save us from the Humdrum. But it’s not the Mage.”

Niall pushes himself off the fence, and I nod at Nico.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Petty. You’ll be hearing from me.”

Nico’s eyes go wide, but I don’t give him a chance to say anything else before Niall and I turn and make our way back down the alley. My hand is shaking, my coffee sloshing around inside it, but I don’t stop for a moment.

All I want is to talk to Simon.

Fiona doesn’t blink when Niall and I come home forty minutes later, just gives us a nod from her seat on the sofa. Niall goes and sits down next to her, apparently intending to watch whatever trashy Hallmark special she’s put on, but I slip away to my room and pull out my mobile.

 

 **BP** : _Is Simon awake?_

 **AW** : no, he crashed while watching Dr Who, why?

 **BP** : _Would you mind waking him up and asking him to call me?_

 **AW** : is everything okay? Are you alright?

 **BP** : _Everything’s fine, I just need to talk to him about something_

 **AW** : yeah, give me a few

 

I cast a silence spell on my door and pace around my bed, my hands shaking. I shouldn’t have kept this from him, not something this big, not something that’s going to impact him too.

And I need to be smart about how I do this. I need him on my side. I don’t think I can do this if he’s against me.

I crack open my laptop and pull up Spotify, and hit play on the last thing I had on. It’s the Rolling Stones. _Sympathy For The Devil_. I hit skip as fast as I can. I don’t have sympathy for him tonight.

My phone rings a moment later and my stomach nearly jumps into my throat as my shaking fingers press the accept button.

“Baz?” comes Snow’s groggy voice over the other end. “Everything alright?”

I take a deep breath. Hearing his voice helps. It helps a lot.

“Not entirely,” I tell him truthfully, then sigh. I put my head on my knees and run one hand through my hair. “Listen, Simon, I need to talk to you about something. You’re not going to like it, but I need — just listen. Just give me a chance. Please.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone, and then I hear rustling of covers and the creak of springs as Snow sits down on his bed. I can almost picture it — his hair wild and mussed, his eyes foggy with sleep, his legs folded up under him as he sits at attention and tries to shake himself awake. He doesn’t like to do things half-way.

“Okay,” he says finally, the rough edges of sleep gone from his voice. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

 

***

 

Simon Snow isn’t a boy known for his communication skills. But yet he constantly amazes me with how succinct he manages to be underneath his rambling, nonsensical facade.

“Promise me you’re not going to be all...you about it,” Snow says, gesturing vaguely at me. The movement causes the flimsy mattress of my school bed to bounce, and I suppress the urge to sneeze. In the month since we’ve been away from school, it’s collected a rather lot of dust. I had planned to clean everything before I went to bed, but once Snow got back to school… well, plans went awry.

I raise an eyebrow at him and he huffs and looks away in embarrassment, and shoves another crisp in his mouth.

“I don’t know what that means,” I say calmly. I follow his motion and take a bite of a crisp with one hand, and cover my fangs with the other.

Just as he has all night, Snow reaches up and drags the hand covering my mouth back down to my lap, and I flick at him gently with my fingers. I want to stop this charade and just reach for him and establish maintained contact, but this little ritual seems to be grounding him, even if it’s blindingly exasperating for me.

We’re sat on my bed in our pyjamas, listening to the _Electric Warrior_ album and eating crisps and talking about how Simon’s father figure murdered my mother. And he’s taking it remarkably well, all things considered.

“I just mean…” he says, then huffs again. “Are you sure? It’s not a lot of proof, and I don’t want you to…” he trails off and scrubs at his hair, frustrated.

“You don’t want me to what?” I prompt, finally giving in and reaching out for his ankle. He’s leaning against the wall, his knees pulled up, and I gently drag his leg into my lap and rub at the jut of bone just above his feet. He has huge feet. Like a hobbit. No wonder he’s so uncoordinated.

My touch seems to surprise him, and some of his frustration melts away. Encouraged, I reach out and grab his other leg and pull it to my lap as well. These kinds of things are new, and we’re still figuring it out — but it turns out that Simon Snow apparently really craves physical touch.

I can relate.

“I don’t want you to kill him,” he whispers, and my eyes shoot up from the small dusting of freckles on his left ankle to his blue eyes, wide with genuine concern.

“I’m not going to kill him,” I say, my tone soft. “I think that phase of my life is over. If I killed him, I’d be no better than he is.” My grip on Snow’s ankles tightens. “And I’m better than him. I will be better than him.”

Snow doesn’t say anything. Just stares at his lap.

I can’t imagine how hard this is for him.

I can’t imagine how strong he’s being right now.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks finally. My fingers relax.

“I’m going to be patient,” I respond. My right index finger strokes at the top of his foot, and his leg spasms a bit. He must be ticklish. “All I have currently is testimony from some rabbits and a vampire. Hardly characters in good standing, and I doubt the Coven will admit the testimony of a vampire.”

That’s another difficulty. If I take this to the Coven, being able to provide the memory from the hares is crucial. But that memory is entirely damning. If they see it, they’ll know. They’ll know what I am, and then they’ll snap my wand and pull out my teeth and I’ll be just like Nico — relying on the illegal pity of the people who used to love me, stabbing deer in alleyways and draining them on the pavement. Skulking around as a shadow of myself. Or maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t be that generous. Maybe they would—

“Stop it,” Snow says. I blink up at him.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking,” he says, reaching out and running his thumb over the crease in my forehead. “Whatever you’re worrying about, just stop it.”

“Not all of us can afford to stop thinking,” I say. But I lean into his hand and his thumb comes across my forehead one more time, rubbing small circles into my skin. I sigh and squeeze at his ankles.

This is one of those unspeakably soft moments I’ve been waiting for, and I hate that it’s accompanied by this conversation.

“You need more proof,” he says, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. He lets it go and sighs, and my eyes get stuck on the red, glistening lip. “I’ll help.”

I take a sharp inhalation of breath.

“You believe me?”

The air in our room is still. Heavy. Hanging between us like a suffocating weight, and I can see the internal battle playing across Snow’s face, making its way from his closed eyes down to his set jaw.

“I believe that I trust you,” he says finally, and the weight lifts. “If you can find proof — clear, absolute proof — I’ll back you up.”

A prickling sensation threatens my eyes, and I push down the lump in my throat. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear this. To have his support. When I called him on Christmas and told him what I’d learned, he’d been largely silent. A bit angry at me for going to Nico. A lot angry for not telling him I was going. But he hadn’t argued with the crux of the point, and we didn’t talk about it for the rest of break, and I’d been terrified that when we got back to school, everything would explode. Whatever strange, delicate thing that was building between us would be torn apart, and he’d be against me.

I don’t know how he does it. How he makes up his mind and is so sure of things. How he manages to just bend the world into making sense.

“I don’t want it to be true,” he says suddenly, his voice hard. “I don’t fully believe it. But I trust you. And I…” he trails off and his hands come up to grip forcefully at his curls. “The phobus was right about a lot of things. You were right about a lot of things. He’s not… I think maybe I’ve been wrong about him in some ways. I don’t think he cares about me.”

“He’s an idiot,” I say, all my composure breaking as I reach forward and pull him into my arms. “He’s an absolute idiot. Only a monster could not care about you, you ridiculous perfect thing.”

He rests his forehead against my shoulder and I feel him breathe deep, and then pull back.

“Whatever happens, it’s going to be together, okay?” he says, his tone forcefully, his chin jutted out. “No more secrets, no more fighting. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, avoiding his eyes. We’re oscillating between soft and sharp so fast that it’s hard for me to keep up, and I’m drowning in the word _“together_.”

“Us,” he says, rubbing his thumb over his wrist. “Looking for proof and dealing with this and just… doing this.” He gestures between us, and then he grins. An awful, wild grin. “I want us to do it together. Like… you know.”

“I don’t know,” I repeat, even though I absolutely do. I’m going to make him say it.

He turns a bright red. Behind us, my illegal bluetooth speaker is still playing, and _Life’s A Gas_ comes on. I know Snow loves this song.

“I want…” he starts, chokes, his ears lighting up. “I want to be a team, Baz.” He clears his throat and holds up his head and stares me down. His fighting stance. He’s getting ready to go to battle. “I want to be your boyfriend. I’m kind of shit at it, but I think you probably are too. So let’s do it.”

I snort, even though I’m burning alive inside.

I want this. I want this so badly, but there’s no possible way it’s this easy. It doesn’t just get to be this easy. I should insult him, or push him away, or be cold, because that’s what we do.

But it’s not, not really.

Not anymore.

“There’s something wrong with you,” I respond, scrounging desperately for anything, even as I reach for him and play with the calluses along his palm. Snow just shrugs.

“Probably,” he responds, and then catches at my wrist again. “But I know what I want. Do you?”

His eyes are wide and deep and difficult to see in the shadows of the room and I want to fall inside them and stay there for a bit, curled up inside him where it’s warm and safe and nothing is out there and no one has killed my mother and I’m not a monster and the world isn’t terrifying.

“Longer than you have,” I retort, and smile, and pull him in for a kiss. He takes like salt and chocolate and smoke and Simon, and when he puts his hands in my hair I feel like I’m unravelling.

He stays with me for a long while afterward, curled up against me as I sit up and read, his warm breaths huffing out against my thigh. I’ve propped my book on his back, but he didn’t seem to notice — just asked me to keep the music on and conked out.

I’m going to have to kick him out at some point. This bed isn’t big enough for both of us. But I’m not ready to evict him yet, because he’s warm, and disgusting, and breathing with his mouth open and looking like an absolute mess, and he’s mine.

I’m his.

We’re a team.

And we’re going to bring down the Mage.

 

***

 

Snow nudges at me with his foot, and I glare at him. I’m not sure how I was voted as the designated person to make this announcement. We didn’t have any kind of conversation about it or anything, but I suppose it should have been obvious. He’s not exactly a communicator.

The time is ripe. Everyone is here, milling around in the corridors before our Greek Lesson. We’ve been looking for a chance to address this, and we’ve been back at school for two weeks already. It’s time to face the music.

“I’m just saying, if you compare it to the other contemporary hits, there’s no competition. It’s _still_ on the charts.”

Dev closes his eyes, sighs heavily, and then puts his hands on Niall’s arms.

“I don’t give a shit about _Mr. Brightside_ , okay? Please. I don’t.”

Bunce ignores the entire conversation, as she’s busy using Snow’s back as a table in order to jot down her homework, and Wellbelove is trying to stare through my soul. Snow, from his half-bent position, looks up and gives me a half smile.

I sigh. There’s probably delicate ways to bring this up. But I’m not exactly delicate. Best to rip off the bandaid.

I clear my throat.

No one looks at me.

I clear my throat again.

“You getting a cold, mate?” Niall asks, and I roll my eyes. Circe give me strength.

“No, I’m not. I need to say something.”

Now everyone looks at me. Even Bunce glances up from her human furniture for a moment.

“Snow and I are dating.”

There’s an extremely long silence, and then Niall frowns.

“Yeah, mate.... We know.”

“I didn’t know,” Dev argues. Niall raises an eyebrow, but Dev doubles down. “I mean, I figured. Especially after you told me about that scene in the Wood. But I didn’t assume they were dating just because they made out.”

Snow flushes a nice salmon pink, and his ears light up like a Christmas tree.

“Well I haven’t said anything, and now I have, so no one can come yell at me for it later,” I snap. “And no, we’re not telling people, so don’t advertise it around.”

“I think that’s a good idea, actually,” Bunce says, staring at me. I was a little worried about her reaction. I think we’re friendly enough (even if we’re not friends), but there is the fact that I think of all my fellow students, Bunce is actually the one most likely to kill me the least amount of guilt.

“Why?” Snow asks, straightening up and stretching out his back. I try not to watch him.

“Just seems like a good idea,” Bunce says, shrugging. “With the politics and everything, people might not take it well, and I wouldn’t want you to get dragged into that.”

The soft look she gives Snow makes it clear that by _people_ she means _my_ people.

“My family won’t care,” I say bluntly, cutting over her. “They know I’m gay, and they’ll support my choices.”

Bunce’s eyes go wide, and Dev and Niall both look on in interest.

“That’s nice and all,” Bunce says, pursing her lips, “but will they support _this_ choice?”

“Yes,” I say, more sharply than I meant to. “Yes, they will.”

“Baz—” Snow starts, but I cut him off. I’m pissed now.

“No, it’s alright, Snow,” I interrupt. “We’re not keeping it quiet because we’re scared of what people will think.” Snow rubs at the back of his neck and sighs before looking away. At least he knows me well enough to not try to cut off my rant before it starts. “I’m not ashamed of Simon. I will be telling my family about him, and they will accept him, because that’s what families do.”

I meet Bunce’s eyes and stare her down for a moment, making sure that she’s listening, before I continue.

“We’re keeping it to ourselves because it’s no one’s business but ours,” I say, then look at the larger group. “And if anyone has a problem with that, or with us, they can take it up with me.”

It’s silent for a very long moment, and then finally Dev speaks.

“No one here is going to give you shit,” he says quietly. “Right Bunce?”

Bunce nods.

“I just don’t want Simon hurt,” she says, then looks away.

“Good. Me neither.” I stand up straighter and adjust my jacket. “Class, then?”

I turn on my heel and head toward the classroom, and Wellbelove pushes off from the wall to follow me.

“Baz,” she says, and I speed up. It’s not that I’m avoiding her. It’s just that I’m fresh out of emotional conversations and I really don’t want to have to address the elephant in the room. Or the vampire in the room, as it is.

So I’ve been avoiding her.

“Don’t even think you can hide from me, Basilton.”

I pull up short in my attempt to duck into a classroom and turn to face my fate. She’s just one girl. I’ve faced worse. Probably. I fought a chimera at one point, right?

“I’m a Pitch,” I sniff, ignoring Wellbelove’s glare. “I don’t hide.”

I’m also clearly a liar, but she has enough class to not call me on it.

“Want to walk?” she asks, in a tone that clearly indicates no is not an answer. She’s bundled up against the cold in a ridiculous pink hat and a cream scarf and she’d look like a little doll if it weren’t for the fact that she’s also wearing my old denim jacket, which entirely ruins the look.

“So,” she starts, letting out a puff of air that hangs between us. We’re in the academic building and it’s still so cold that our breath is visible. Usually the Mage and the staff have heating charms going all winter, but since the phobus attack and the newest dead spot, the Mage has been far more focused on defensive manoeuvers than the comfort of students.

“This is a bit weird, isn’t it?”

I hum a question and inspect my book.

“All this time, Simon was telling the truth. About you being a—”

“He is obnoxiously honest, isn’t he?” I say dismissively, refusing to look up into her brown eyes.

“You know I don’t care, right?” she says, flicking a curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s massively weird. And if I didn’t know you I’d probably be extremely suspicious. But it’s…” she shrugs daintily. “It’s whatever.”

“Staggeringly eloquent,” I say, knocking her shoulder. I didn’t expect her to have a problem, but her support is a relief. Whatever she may think about the Mage and politics, Wellbelove is the only one of my friends with a similar background and upbringing to me — aside from Dev. It’s nice to have someone from the old guard on my side.

“However, it’s not as weird as the fact that you’re dating Simon,” she says, and my eyes go wide as I hiss for her to lower her voice.

“Is that weird?” I ask as noncommittally as I can. Because it’s not weird for me. It’s about the only thing that makes sense sometimes, in a surreal, improbable way.

It’s probably the only thing that’s keeping me from going mad.

Wellbelove lets out a huff and lingers by the door to our Greek classroom.

“No,” she says thoughtfully. “No, I guess not.” She sighs. “When I think about it, a lot of things make a lot more sense, actually.” Then her face grows hard. “But why didn’t you _tell me?_ ” she scolds, reaching out to smack me in the arm. “Merlin, do you know how much we could have used each other? All this time you’ve been mooning over him and you listened to me go on about it, and you never even _said—_ ”

“Baz has been mooning?” comes a dry voice across the hall. “This I can’t believe.”

I turn around quickly, surprised to see the grinning face of Charlie Hollow heading toward us, and the thirteen year old in me that still finds him deadly attractive lets out a small sigh of appreciation and also utter humiliation. He’s wearing an improbably adorable jumper that should not be allowed to go with his cheekbones.

“Wellbelove was just being insane,” I say quickly, but she smiles up at me in a way that looks far far too dangerous. “Don’t mind her, it’s her natural state.”

Wellbelove slides her arm onto mine and smiles up at Hollow.

“Baz here was just being happy. Don’t mind him, it’s dreadfully unnatural for him.”

Hollow lets out a barking laugh of surprise and fixes his steady hazel eyes on me. There’s a smile in them, even though he’s trying to keep a straight and professional face.

“Good to hear it. Mr. Pitch,” he says, nodding, and takes off down the hallway. He presses a firm hand to my shoulder as he passes, and the ghost of thirteen-year old Baz sobs.

“I used to be pathetically in love with him,” I say in a sigh once he’s around the corner, and Wellbelove nearly chokes. I straighten up and push off the wall. “Oh, look at the time, we have class.”

I disappear into the classroom before she can get another word in, and take my desk at the front of the room. In the row behind us, Snow looks up from a game of hangman to grin at me, and Bunce gives a cool nod of hello. Wellbelove slams into the seat next to me in a fit of annoyance, and I settle in to pay attention when a crumpled note lands in front of me.

I raise an eyebrow at Snow and then unfold it carefully, keeping my eyes on the Minotaur.

_Mage wants to meet with me this afternoon, in the Wood._

Panic flares hot through me, and I clench the paper so tightly that I almost tear it in my hand. Glancing up at our teacher, I scrawl a response and pass it back to him.

_Everything alright? What’s it about?_

The paper hits me in the head this time, and I scowl as I quickly flatten it.

_No clue. But his office will be unlocked. Pen says the Mage’s Men are doing inventory on a crate of books. Could be an opening. Meeting at 4 pm_

My head shoots up and I swivel around to stare at him, the Minotaur be damned. His clear blue eyes meet mine, and he gives me a small shrug, as if it’s not at all a big deal that he’s advocating I break into the Mage’s office.

Merlin, I love him.

I write down my response and put it carefully in front of him, and then turn back to the lesson.

_Please be careful._

A moment later I feel his leg jut out from under his desk and tap the back of my thigh twice, and I know he’s responding to my note. He leaves his foot there, stretched out, resting against the side of my foot, and I look down at my notes and push back a smile.

 

***

 

Penelope Bunce is looking at me like she wants to murder me, and I’m actually not sure what I’ve done this time.

“When Simon asked me to do a favour for him I didn’t realise it involved breaking into the Mage’s office,” she hisses as we walk carefully toward the Weeping Tower. “I told you I was out. No more.”

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” I snarl back, rankled. “I was going to go myself. Snow is the one who got you involved.”

Bunce gives me a look that could drop a man, and I look away. She’s right. I couldn’t do this myself. I need her.

“One last job, Bunce, then you can retire from your life of crime.”

“The two of you are _awful_ ,” she mumbles, and then pulls me into an archway. Glancing over her shoulder, she ducks down on the ground and tucks her cape around her knees. “Do you have a hair tie?”

I’m not exactly sure what a hair tie has to do with our impending heist, but I pull a black band out of my pocket and hand it to her. She shoves her towering mass of hair up into a bun, and then nods.

“Make sure no one sees me,” she instructs, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Seconds later she opens them again.

“What am I looking for?”

“Oh, er,” I struggle. I don’t actually know what Bunce is even about to do. “Anything incriminating. Documents dating around 2002. Anything about my mother.”

Bunce’s face contorts into a mask of pity, but then she nods.

“Right,” she says briskly. “Keep an eye out.”

And then she slumps over.

A pigeon from the rafters races by my ear, coming so close to my head that I have to duck, and zooms out into the night sky, spiralling around and then disappearing.

Bunce looks vaguely dead, and I resist the urge to kick her gently to check.

Time creeps by, and I shiver against the cold, wondering once again what Snow and the Mage are doing in the Wood. I’ve a clear view from our spot, so I can see if anyone is approaching the Tower, but there’s no movement. I’ve also an ear out for explosions — I don’t care if Bunce _is_ dead. If the Wood goes up suddenly, I’m going in after him. Her body will wait.

After what feels like years and at least four warming charms, there’s movement from the Wood. The Mage and Snow are heading this way, the Mage taking long, wide strides, Snow following at a small clip. His head is down, and he looks upset.

Alarmed, I glance at Bunce. She’s still unconscious, and I’ve no idea what she’s done, but I imagine she shouldn’t be caught. I nudge her with the toe of my boot, and her leg wobbles back. I nudge her again, more insistently this time, and whisper her name.

“Bunce,” I hiss. “Bunce. Time’s up.”

The pigeon from before comes racing back toward us, narrowly misses the side of my head, and then collapses onto the ground, breathing heavily.

Bunce awakes with a gasp.

“What the absolute fuck was that?” I snarl, reaching down and grabbing her arm to wrench her back up. The Mage is almost to the Tower by now, and Snow has seen us, his eyes wide.

Bunce shakes her head, as if coming out of a stupor.

“Did you find anything?” I press, but she doesn’t respond, just grabs my arm and drags me out of the alcove and toward the Great Hall.

“If you don’t stop studying and take a chance to eat, you’re going to make yourself sick,” she scolds loudly, then pauses as we come even with Snow and the Mage. “Oh hello, sir. How are you doing?”

The Mage looks at her like he barely knows who she is, and then nods.

“Hm? Oh, well, well. Thank you.” He glances over his shoulder at Snow, who he almost seems to have forgotten was there. “Simon, why don’t you go get dinner with your friends? I’ll see you next week.”

Snow nods mutely and the Mage heads inside. Bunce and I pounce immediately.

“That was useless,” she says to me as she reaches for Simon, neatly cutting over my, “What the fuck was that, Bunce?” and “Snow, are you alright?”

Snow shakes us off and gives a weak smile.

“C’mon, I’m starved. Food? Then I’ll fill you in.”

It’s a bit early in the dinner hour, but Bunce and I follow him like wildly missized ducklings, trailing as he goes through the food line, piles his plate full of more food than any one person could possibly eat, and then pulls up a seat at a table in the corner. Snow and I don’t often sit together, unless all our friends sit as a group. Joining just him and Bunce is something I’ve never done before, and I feel a bit like I’m intruding on something.

“Baz,” he says, looking up over his roast beef. “Sit.” He pats the bench next to him and I side down as gracefully as one can on a fucking bench, and Bunce takes the seat on the other side of the table.

“Find anything?” he asks, and I turn to Bunce. I have no idea.

“Not really,” she says, looking apologetic. “Loads of books, mostly. A few artifacts. I wanted to get a better look, but I was possessing a bird so the angling was kind of hard—”

“I’m sorry, what?” I interject, but Bunce ignores me.

“Nothing like you were looking for though, Basil. I did see a few of your mum’s books, though. They were in a crate, along with a couple of other things. But here’s the weird thing,” she says, stopping for a moment to put a slice of roast in her mouth thoughtfully. “The crate was marked ‘do not put in archive — personal property, return to Machynlleth’.”

“Machynlleth?” I ask with a frown. I stumble over the pronunciation slightly.

“It’s in Wales,” Snow mumbles, swallowing a huge mouthful of food. “It’s actually kind of close to where I was surrendered.”

“Really?” Bunce asks, frowning. “I didn’t know that, Simon. I thought it was about the dead spot.”

“Dead spot?” he echoes.

“Machynlleth was one of the earliest dead spots. Second?” I glance at Bunce for confirmation, and she nods. “It’s the largest one on record.”

“Why would the Mage be sending personal belongings to a dead spot?” Snow asks, shovelling rice in his gob. Bunce shrugs.

“That’s what I wonder. It’s possible he’s got a research station there, but I don’t think so. He doesn’t really do the research, that’s dad’s area. And besides, no one could stand being in a dead spot that long anyway, and it seems odd to store personal items there.”

“Maybe he’s got a storage facility,” Snow says with a shrug, clearly not invested in this conversation. “Things like that may be cheaper in Wales or something.”

“Or maybe he has a house,” I say slowly. Both Bunce and Snow look at me, confused.

“Why would he have a house in Wales?” Snow asks.

“Why would he have a house in a dead spot?” Bunce reponds.

“What if he owned it before it was a dead spot?” I venture. But they’re lost. I sigh. “The Mage is Welsh. Davy Llewellyn? Maybe that’s his house. It’s clever, actually, if you think about it. If you have things to hide from Mages, to keep them somewhere a Mage would never look.” I turn to Simon. “Do you know where his house is?”

Snow turns a beautiful shade of pink.

“Honestly, for a long time I kind of thought he lived in the woods,” he mutters.

Bunce is watching me, her eyes sharp.

“That’s a big coincidence,” she says finally. “The Mage having a house in a dead spot. A dead spot being right near where Simon was born.”

She’s right. It is a big coincidence.

“We know the Humdrum has it in for him,” I say quietly. “And he is the Chosen One. It kind of makes karmic sense that he’d be in the middle of this.”

“He is also right here,” Snow grouses, shoving his plate back. “And he is getting pudding.”

“Be a dear, get me a tea, love?” I mumble, holding out my tea cup for him lazily. He scowls and snatches it out of my hand, and I don’t bother to contain my smirk.

Bunce shakes her head and mutters something under her breath that sounds like “ _fucking weird_.” She and Dev are remarkably similar sometimes.

As soon as Snow is out of ear shot, she looks up at me.

“Some of those books were odd,” she says quietly, looking around. “Lots of arcane texts and scrolls and things about prophecies. And that book we rescued fourth year, remember it? That was there as well, along with other things.”

I wasn’t part of that little search party in the fourth year, but I don’t remind her. Bunce and Snow have a maddening habit of forgetting I haven’t always been part of their little gang.

“Malcolm says the Mage has gone mad with trying to find a way to go after the Humdrum since the phobus attack,” I say lightly. The Mage’s library doesn’t particularly interest me.

“These don’t seem like books to take on the Humdrum, though. Mostly, they seem to be about channelling—”

Bunce shuts up as soon as Snow sits back down, a plate loaded high with treacle in one hand and a cup of milky tea in the other.

“So what did Robin Hood want with you?” I ask, taking the cup from him and brushing lightly along his thumb.

“Don’t call him that,” Snow mutters, his mouth full of treacle tart. He swallows and then shrugs.

“The usual, really. Wanted to practise. Try some things.”

“Practise what?”

“Oh, Simon, don’t tell me he’s on this again. You’ve been doing so well!” Bunce gasps. I’ve lost the plot.

“On what again?”

“He said my slip up with the phobus was a sign I still haven't controlled myself. He wasn’t happy that I exploded it and let all that fear out. He thinks I should have known better.”

“So he’s what? Having you practise battlefield technique?”

“No,” Snow says, shaking his head. “He’s trying to get me to focus. Find a way to ground my power. He did it a lot when I was younger, then kind of gave up, because it was useless and I got better a bit — especially using music spells and stuff — but now he says it’s more important than ever. So every week we’re going to meet to try out new things and see if I can get it right.”

Something sick shifts inside me.

“Get...what right?”

Snow grimaces.

“The phobus.”

“ _What_ _?_ ” Bunce and I exclaim at the same time. Heads turn, but I don’t care.

“Yeah, you know that clearing? Apparently phobuses— phobi? Things, the things nest in there. One in each of the seven oaks. So he’s going to work with me to try things to fix me and then test it out on a phobus, since they’re not that dangerous.”

“I’m going to kill him,” I growl, my fingers clutching the table. “I’m going to fucking—”

“Baz,” Snow says frowning.

“Simon,” I grit out in response. “That thing got in your head. And he’s just going to throw you to your fucking fears weekly?”

“He says that if I can’t face my self doubt I can’t take on the Humdrum, and if we find a way to fix me—”

“You’re not broken!” I snarl, my voice raising so high that it echoes off the stone walls and bounces through the room. Every eye turns to look at me.

“Baz—” Snow starts, his face scrunched up, but I stand, shaking my head.

“Excuse me,” I say tightly, draining my tea and then walking quickly from the room. I’m headed to the Wood. I need to distance myself, I need to calm down. I need to hunt and feed or else I may genuinely track the Mage down this moment and rip his head off.

Maybe I’ll test my vampire strength and try ripping out all seven of those fucking trees.

 

***

 

 _“I will not kill him_ ,” I say. “ _I will not kill him_ . _I will not remove his head and bury it in the Wood and then throw his body to the merwolves. I will not set his moustache on fire. I will not attack him from behind and drain him dry and send him up in flames._ ”

If I repeat this mantra enough, I may be able to convince myself.

I’m pacing the room for lack of anything better to do, because it’s raining out and I’ve already fed and I’ve done all my homework. I wish I could be snooping around and finding clues about the Mage, but there’s very little investigating I can do while at school, and it’s actually slightly disconcerting how life can slip by and things can happen and I can live without letting the constant panic of knowing the Mage killed my mother and he’s still out there take over my life fully.

Especially on nights like this, when Snow has his special lessons, and I’m waiting for him to come back to the room so I can pick up the pieces like usual.

To say that the Mage’s efforts have been a failure would be an understatement.

Snow is never exceptionally in control of his magic, but it’s almost like it’s gotten worse since the Mage started doing his fucking experiments on them. His concentration in class is shot. He’s always leaking magic. He blew a hole in a wall of the class room last week, and yesterday somehow called down a plague of locusts on the pitch.

This is the third of their special “lessons.” Last session Simon had to drink some kind of black substance that gave him stomach cramps and nightmares all night, and the time before that the Mage did some arcane rite that involved cutting Simon’s hand nearly to ribbons. (And then did an atrocious job at healing it back up.)

Neither of these attempts resulted in success in taking on another phobus, and both were eventually exploded in a fit of panic and emotion, just like the first one.

Snow’s put on a good show, though. Of course he has. He’s brave and resilient and will fight to the end, even though he’s not a fucking fighter. Not at heart. He doesn't want to be. He only fights because he’s never known anything else.

So he comes back to the room and gives me a weak smile and collapses into bed. The first time I flitted around him, unsure and hesitant to push a boundary. His hand was still bleeding, and I was worried about getting too close, because even though we talk about the vampire thing, I’m still nervous as fuck about it.

But when he came back last time with purple bags under his eyes and vaguely sweating and wincing with pain, I couldn’t keep myself at a distance. I’d pulled him into my bed and put on The Vaselines and chattered to him about their influence on Nirvana and how fucking weird they were, and the importance of the Scottish punk scene in general, and I let him fall asleep in my lap. That’s how I know he had nightmares. Because he whimpered and lashed against my back all night, and I didn’t sleep a wink for it.

He says that he’s willing to try these things, because I know he’s desperate to get his magic under control. I know he loves magic. _Needs_ magic, and needs to fight the Humdrum and finish it off for his own sense of purpose. He says it’s for a greater good and that these trials and rites and facing down phobuses isn’t that bad, and I want to believe him, but I don’t.

I’m terrified of what it will be this time, and I’m terrified that I won’t be able to keep myself in check.

The Mage took my mother from me. He won’t take Simon too.

When I hear him on the stairs I stop pacing and thrust myself into my desk chair. I turn on The Kinks because I know it will calm him, and I school my face neutral and don’t look at him as he enters the room.

“How did it go?” I ask, making myself sound neutral. Neutral neutral. Non-homicidal.

“Pants,” he mutters, and I hear his rucksack hit the bed. His shoe goes flying toward the wall, then the other one, and then he sinks down onto the floor with a groan. I take a deep breath, brace myself, and then finally turn to look at him.

He’s blue.

He’s covered in some kind of woad, smeared over his face and his arms, and it seems like he may have had his palm sliced into again, from the faint metallic scent of blood. But mostly he just looks tired.

The playlist I have on turns over from _Lola_ to _Strangers_ and he closes his eyes, lets out a long sigh, and leans his head back against the bed. I’m glad I chose the right music. I’m extremely lucky to be able to know the right music, I think.

“What did you try this time?” I ask, because it’s a diplomatic way of demanding to know what hell the Mage put him through tonight.

Snow pulls his jumper off over his head and manages to smear woad in his hair.

“Honestly, nothing too bad. Just this weird clay stuff and then he had me meditate inside of a circle and said some words and shit. The phobus was worse.”

I push up out of my desk chair and go over to him. It’s easier, now knowing that I don’t have to hold myself back from homicide.

“Tell me about it,” I command, nudging him over and sitting down on the ground next to him. He turns and sinks into my lap immediately, his head resting on my thigh, and my hands go to his hair.

“The phobus kept telling me that…” he swallows, and looks out the window. “Kept saying I’m broken, never going to fix this. Never going to take on the Humdrum.”

I’ve noticed It’s easier for him to say _‘the phobus told me’_ rather than say _‘I’m scared that…’_

I hum and curl his hair around my fingers, encouraging him to go on.

“It’s just really fucking frustrating to have him there and hearing all that. I know he already thinks I’m weak and shit, it’s awkward as fuck to have him there to see it. And he always stays outside of the clearing, so it never goes after him.”

“You’re not weak,” I say immediately. “You are literally inhumanly strong, thick headed, stubborn, and a pain in the ass of anyone who gets in your way.”

He snorts and pats at my thigh. He winces with the effort.

“Does it mention anything about him?” I ask.

I’ve been dying to know if the Mage has been forced to face the immense level of damage he’s done to Simon’s psyche, but he just shakes his head.

“No, it turns out, I’m not really anxious about that anymore. I’ve kind of come to terms with it. I mean… he wouldn’t put me through this shit if he cared. You wouldn’t do it, I mean. Or Pen. Or Ags.”

“No,” I say fiercely, relief washing through me. “No, we wouldn’t. So why are you still going?”

“Because…” Snow sighs and shrugs. “Just because I misjudged our relationship doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up on him. He does care in his own way. He does want me to be the best I can be, and as strong as I can, and as prepared as possible to take on the Humdrum. In the end that’s what matters to me. And if you’re right….” he trails off and sighs and closes his blue eyes. “If you’re right, about what he did to your mum, doesn’t it make sense to use this chance to learn what I can from him?”

I love him.

I love him immeasurably, in an all-consuming, aching kind of way that makes me fried and tight inside, and I want to cover him up with everything I am and tuck him away and keep him somewhere where no one will ever hurt him and he’ll never have to fight ever again.

“I’m amazed that your rigid moral compass allows you to do that,” I say, instead of vomiting my messy emotions over both of us. He huffs out a breath of air and reaches for my hand. He holds it above his face and opens his eyes, threading his fingers through mine and turning my hand this way and that as if inspecting it in the light.

“Turns out that being around you has fucked up my moral compass. And besides, I’m more into justice,” he says with a small grin, and then winces again.

“Did you blow yourself up?”

He rolls his eyes and nods briefly, and I sigh, push him off my lap, and stand.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say, offering him a hand. “Come on.”

He takes my hand and lets me haul him to his feet, but he looks wary.

“You need a shower. You look like a smurf, and it’s not a good look. And you smell like ozone,” I tell him, marching him to the bathroom. He rolls his eyes again and huffs loudly.

“You know, I’m not actually a toddler.”

I fold my arms and glare at him until he relents, goes inside the en suite, shuts the door, and turns the water on. For a moment — a wild, tantalising moment — I consider barging in and joining him, but I think he’d probably stab me. Or scream in surprise and slip on a shampoo bottle and bludgeon himself to death.

And anyway, we’re not there. We’re not even close to there, which is probably for the best, because if we went there, I think I’d probably lose my mind.

Things are very… soft, I suppose. I guess that’s what happens with a new relationship, but especially one started during a time where everything is falling apart. Both of us are too distracted and too tired and too aching and _too_ everything to really do anything but seek out small touch and words and comfort.

It’s odd, a bit, how quickly we’ve become dependent on each other for that. I never thought any of this would happen, but I especially never thought I’d be the kind of person who could walk up to Simon Snow and bury my face in his hair. Or have him crowd his way into my bed while I’m reading and wedge himself between my back and the wall. Or that we’d seek each other out for long, searching, passionate and needy-turned sleepy kisses.

But now I find myself looking for his touch or smile or even his solid glance across a room in order to recenter myself, adjust, keep going forward.

That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about things more than smiles though.

Especially when those things are naked and showering on the other side of the room from me.

I change into my pyjamas quickly, grabbing one of Snow’s jumpers and pulling it on with my joggers, and settle myself in my bed with a book just as the shower cuts off. He emerges a moment later, shaking water from his head like a dog and looking substantially happier.

“I like you in that jumper,” he says, throwing his towel in the corner of the room. My face heats up, but I don’t acknowledge him.

He crosses the room and then, with a heavy groan, collapses on his own bed.

“C’mere,” he yawns.

“I’m reading.”

“I’ll scratch your back if you c’mere,” he mumbles, and he knows it’s a compelling offer, the bastard, because I’m up and trading into his bed almost directly.

“I’m not a dog,” I snap, even as I settle into the bed.

He turns over and yawns in my face and reaches around to scratch at the middle of my back, and I hum slightly and lean into it, my spine arching. Snow yawns again and puts his head against my chest.

“I like your voice,” he mumbles, and I have to close my eyes to keep from combusting.

“Of course you do, it’s very elegant. My family spent a lot of money for me to speak this nicely,” I whisper, twirling a curl around my finger.

“You don’t talk as posh as Dev.”

“That’s because Dev is an overly plummy twat,” I respond. “Now go to sleep, you menace.”

It’s not late. I had no plans to go to bed this early. But I know that I’ll stay with him, at least for a while, and probably all night if he wants me to, even though the mornings after we share a bed we’re both sore and cramped and cranky.

“I told him to stop,” he whispers quietly. It catches me by surprise, because I thought he was asleep, or at least well on his way to it.

“Hm?”

“The Mage,” Snow says, his voice sleepy but still aware. “I walked away tonight, told him I needed a break. Just for a little bit.”

A jolt goes through me at the idea of Simon standing up to the Mage, even a little.

“It’s not helping, and it hurts,” he says, and then turns on his back so he can look at me easier. “And I’ve started worrying, what if the phobus says something about you? And the Mage finds out that…”

“That we’re together?” I ask, the words constricting in my throat. Snow shakes his head.

“No, that you were Turned. I don’t want him to find out from me, and I don’t know if I can control it.”

I suck in a breath.

“Are you… does it make you anxious that I’m…”

He shakes his head quickly, curls falling in his eyes.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m not scared of you. I’m just scared of them hurting you.”

I have to close my eyes at this to keep myself from an extremely undignified show of emotion, and I feel Snow’s fingers wind around mine, willing me to look back at him. I do.

“He won’t find out from me,” Snow says fiercely. “If I have to blow up the whole Wood, I will. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Go to sleep.” I smooth my hand over his forehead and try to keep my tone even. “You’re delusional when you’re tired.”

“Not delusional,” he says, closing his eyes. “Determined.”

“Sometimes the same thing with you,” I mumble.

There’s another pause, and he lets out a small, sleepy noise. “I’m with you, though. Full on, whatever it takes.” And then his breathing evens out, and he drifts into sleep.

I turn to look back at the ceiling. But something warm swells inside me, something warm and aching that hums through me and makes me feel like a live wire.

If I’ve got Simon Snow protecting me, I don’t think anything can touch me.

 

***

 

“What if they try to eat me?”

I pull up short and fix Snow with a horrified look. He rolls his shoulder awkwardly, but doesn’t look away.

“My family aren’t _cannibals_ , Simon, what the fuck?”

He flushes and kicks at the ground, and I shake my head. Where the hell does he get these ideas?

Dev, probably. That sounds like a distinctly Dev thing to say.

“Just stop being stupid and hurry up,” I say, grabbing his wrist and pressing my thumb into his palm in a quick, reassuring movement before dropping it and heading to the gates. Snow follows along, but he trails a bit behind me. He started his lessons with the Mage back up last night. He didn’t tell me what they did, but he’s been slow and sluggish all morning, and I saw a large bruise curling up his side when he woke up this morning. But I’m trying not to think about that right now.

Dev and Niall are already waiting for us, hands in their pockets, leaning against the stone wall as they talk to two other figures.

Fiona sees us first, turning her head to give me a small salute, and then tilting her chin out in a quizzical expression when she sees Snow at my side. I glare her down, and then give a curt nod to my father as we come even with them.

“Basilton,” he says, an equal mask of confusion on his face as he looks at Snow. I’m now starting to wonder if this was the best idea. Inviting him to meet my family. To be a part of all this.

Since I opted not to go home for Easter break, Fiona thought she would come visit me instead, which I’m partially convinced was really just an excuse to come see Professor Hollow. But then somehow Malcolm got involved, and the more I thought about it, the more I realised that my family has really excellent connections and are actually rather cunning when they want to be, and that hiding this from them…

Well, in short. I wanted reinforcements in my campaign against the Mage.

And despite what Snow may think, I trust my family.

Mostly.

“Father,” I say, returning his nod. “Father, Fiona, you remember Simon.”

“Mr. Snow,” Malcolm responds, inclining his head. Fiona just stares.

“Uh, hi. Sir,” Snow stutters. Dev looks away, and Niall looks unbearably uncomfortable.

“I have something I wanted to discuss with the family, and Simon is involved in that conversation,” I say tightly. Malcolm’s eyes twitch between Snow and Niall, and I know what he’s thinking. _They aren’t family_. But he’s wrong there. Niall is as much my family as Dev is, and Snow is pretty much my everything, and I’m willing to be as stubborn as necessary to drive home that point.

“Well, then,” Malcolm says. “Shall we?”

It’s an extremely tense drive over to the only pub in Watford, the same one Malcolm took Dev and me to last time. Dev and Niall went with Malcolm, and Snow and I went with Fiona, and she spent the whole drive staring at him in the rear-view mirror like a dog surveying a squirrel.

This may have been an absolutely shit idea of epic proportions.

We keep our awkward silence through ordering drinks, and Fiona gets a round of chips for the table, which absolutely no one eats but Snow stares at longingly. Then we sit in even tenser silence. Dev begins to shred his paper napkin holder until Niall forcibly removes it from his hands, Fiona tracks Snow with her eyes like a demented Jack Russell, my father looks on the verge of a nervous fit, and Snow is leaking so much nervous magic that he smells like a chronic smoker.

 _Baba O’Riley_ is playing quietly in the nearly empty pub, and I think it’s giving Dev an eye twitch.

“So,” I say, putting my hands on the table. “You must be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today.”

No one laughs.

The drums in _Baba O’Riley_ kick in.

Right. To the point, then. I withdraw my wand, glance around the pub, and then cast the silence charm around our table. Not as effective when you’re not in an enclosed room, but it’ll do.

“I’m going to be blunt, shall I?” I say, then clear my voice. “I have very good reason to believe that my mother wasn’t killed by the Humdrum, but rather was murdered by the Mage.”

Fiona’s head jerks from Snow to me, and my father goes so still I’m unsure if he’s still breathing.

“As you know, there is a memory recording of the event, which is accessible from the Watford nursery. In it, the...attackers are calm. Collected. Not crazed like all the other Dark Creatures the Humdrum sends. That memory, and the nursery, were sealed off from the rest of the school at the request of the Mage.”

No one is blinking. Beneath the sticky pub table, I feel Snow’s thigh press into mine.

“Over Christmas, Niall and I went to speak to Nicodemus Petty about what he knew.”

“You _what?_ ” Fiona shrieks, even as my father takes a sharp inhalation of breath. Dev’s eyes go wide, and Snow fidgets uncomfortably.

“I told you not to speak to him!” Fiona hisses.

“You took Niall to meet a _vampire_?” Dev says, his voice too loud as he leans over the table, and I realise too late that Niall clearly never told him he was involved in that particular shenanigan.

At the same time, everyone also realises that Dev is the only one who doesn’t know I’m a vampire. Everyone looks in a different direction.

“It was fine,” Niall mumbles quietly. “He hasn’t got teeth. And that’s not the point.”

“Nicodemus confirmed to me that the vampires were sent by a mage. One mage,” I say, talking over the fuss. “The Mage.”

Fiona is shaking her head, looking fucking murderous, and I have no idea if it’s directed at me or Nico. Meanwhile, my father is still deathly still.

“Did he say it? Did he directly say the Mage did it?”

“No,” I admit. “He was too afraid to. But he confirmed my suspicions. Said everything but the name. And his sister—”

“Ebb? What did Ebb say?” Snow cuts in. My father and Fiona look back at him, as if just remembering he’s here.

“His sister is under the impression that all is not above board with the Mage as well,” I say quietly.

“Look, Ebb is a good sort,” Fiona says, cutting over me. “She’s got a good gut about things, but she’s emotional as fuck. You can’t take her feelings as proof.”

Snow’s eyebrows furrow and his proverbial hackles go up as he glares at Fiona.

“Ebb’s not a liar,” he spits, and Fiona turns back to him.

 _Baba O’Riley_ is still going. How fucking long is this song?

“Who the fuck invited the Chosen One?” she snarls. “Is he here to give testimony when we’re all dragged in front of the Coven and tried for treason?”

“Simon is here because he believes me,” I say. Fiona is stunned into silence. “If I can come up with concrete proof, Snow has promised to support my accusation.”

“A memory and a gut feeling and the noncommittal word of Nicodemus Petty are far from proof,” Malcolm says quietly, taking Fiona’s pint and draining it. “If you bring this to the Coven—”

“I’m not going to,” I say, just as evenly. “I’m not sure if there’s a way to prove this.”

“Then what do you want from us?”

I look around the table, lingering on each person, before finally resting my gaze on Snow. He nods. He looks pained, and uncomfortable, and this is killing him, but he nods.

“Help. Advice. You have larger connections. If there’s anything you can think of, anyone who might know something—”

“If this is true, if he did do this,” Malcolm starts, looking like he really does believe it, but is trying to stay neutral, “then he may have done other things. Things easier to trace and prove.”

I nod. My father is following my thought patterns exactly.

“There may be something in Wales, that he’s hiding, we think,” I say quickly. “In the dead spot near Machynlleth.”

Snow stiffens slightly, and looks away. He doesn’t love this theory. Honestly, he doesn’t love any of my theories.

“We can’t go and search Llewellyn’s home,” Malcolm says. “That’s complete political suicide. I’d need cause, and—”

“You can’t search it, no,” I agree. “But you could make things frustrating enough for him — perhaps this summer — that would make it highly unlikely he would be free to go to Wales anytime soon. Theoretically.”

“Basilton,” my father says, his jaw tightening as he brings a hand to his brow. “Under no circumstances are you to—”

“Save it, Malcolm,” Fiona interrupts. “The boy is bad through and through. He’ll do what he wants, no matter what. This was his mother. If he wants to do this, I say we stand back and help where we can.”

Malcolm looks like he wants to burst.

“I need time to think this over,” he grits out, and I nod.

“Of course. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it now,” I say. I shift in my seat slightly, and Snow puts his hand on my thigh for a brief moment, and I continue. “I know that I can’t be the one to take this to the Coven. It has to come from you,” I say, nodding at Malcolm, “or someone like him.” I jerk my head at Snow.

Malcolm looks at Simon for a long, unblinking moment.

“Mr. Snow,” he says, and I can feel Simon fidget beside me. “Do you believe this is true?”

There’s a never ending pause.

“No.”

Dev and Niall’s heads snap up, their eyes wide in alarm, but I’m not worried. I know what Snow’s doing. He’s just being direct, and honest. He doesn’t know any other way.

“So why are you here?” Fiona growls.

“I’m not looking for trouble or trying to start anything. I don’t really care about politics,” Snow says with a shrug. “And I won’t lie, I trust the Mage, I always have, but…” he trails off. “I trust Baz more. If he can prove this, I’ll stand behind him. I’m not working against him. Er, against you. Any of you.”

I reward him with a sharp smile, and turn back to my family.

“I didn’t know you two were such good friends,” Malcolm says, his eyes bouncing between us.

“We’re not,” I respond, meeting my father’s eyes and staring him down. “We’re dating.”

Snow’s eyebrows go up and his head drops to stare at the ground, his nose scrunched up in an expression of pure, unmitigated awkwardness. Dev and Niall freeze in place and begin studying their waters. Fiona looks torn between screaming and laughing, and Malcolm…

I may have just killed my father.

All of a sudden Fiona snorts uncontrollably.

“Sorry,” she says, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, it’s just, Malcolm, you _have_ kept saying that if he’s going to be gay he needs to at least choose well politically.” Fiona snorts again so hard her head almost hits the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid. We all thought you were fucking Niall.”

Niall turns bright red, as does Snow, and neither of them will look at each other. Dev looks close to drowning himself.

Malcolm might self combust. He’s probably regretting every step in his life that has brought him to this. He’s also probably never going to come back to this pub ever again. I can’t say I’d blame him.

“Lovely,” I tell Fiona. Then I tap my fingers on the table and slide out of the booth. “Well. It was lovely to see you two, but we should be off. Think over what I said, Father.” I nod at him, then gesture my head to my friends. “Lads?”

Dev and Niall slide out easily, and Snow nearly falls over his feet as he hurries to get out of the booth. He rights himself, then turns to Fiona and Malcolm.

“It was, er, nice to meet you,” he says stiffly, giving them an awkward wave before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to follow Niall and Dev out the door.

Fiona snorts again and stands up.

“I need a fucking drink.”

“Please get me one as well,” Malcolm says, not looking up from his hands.

“Give Daphne and the girls my love,” I tell him, and then follow my friends out the door.

All things considered, I think they took that well.

 

***

 

“This is ludicrous.”

“Yes,” Dev agrees, looking out on the chaos of the lawn from under the safety of an arch. “But mum says I have to do it, so you’re doing it too.”

“You should have forced Niall,” I mutter.

“I would have, but he’s gagging after that Stainton twat and he laughed when I said I had to do this.”

“Because it’s humiliating.”

“It’s a Watford tradition. You love traditions!” Dev argues. I incline my head slightly and stare at him down the slope of my nose. Of the two of us, I have the better nose. He got the Grimm pug nose, and I thank the good lord for it every day.

“Not heteronormative traditions that reinforce archaic marital obligations and make you look like a complete and utter dunce, no.”

Dev sighs and pinches his brow.

“You sound like Bunce.”

“Just lie,” I say, watching an eighth year girl in front of me burst into tears. “Tell your mum you did it and the girl was hideous or something.”

“She’ll want to know who.”

“Make someone up. Or say it was Bunce, that will horrify her.”

“Oh Crowley, no.”

“Well I’m not doing it. I’m in a happily anarchic relationship. So you’re on your own.”

“You need a distraction,” he says, quietly. “You worry too much. Your mum would want you to.”

“Literally none of these are working on me, so stop being a wally and do your family duty,” I say, utterly and completely unmoved.

Dev closes his eyes, nods his head, and steps out onto the lawn to go collect his polecat.

I’ve always thought Mages are too obsessed with marriage. I know it’s to keep the magic strong and lines pure, but anyone who doesn’t leave Watford in a relationship is looked at like they’re doomed to be alone forever. Everyone couples up at school, and most people do it in the seventh year.

But for those who are single and being forced to mingle, there is the time honoured tradition of the Polecat Pronouncements.

I wish I were joking.

I’ve no idea what asshole came up with this, but it goes a bit like this: some poor, chronically single sod goes out onto the lawn and selects a charmed polecat, which is meant to read into your soul and tell you which Watford student you would be compatible with.

Literally.

It takes absolutely no consideration for your sexual preference and always spits out a name of the opposite gender, even if that person is in a relationship. And the worst part is that so many people take the Polecat Pronouncement seriously. Everyone looks like a fucking idiot, and I’ve no idea why everyone is okay with the idea that magical marriages can be determined by a fucking ferret.

Almost all the polecats on the lawn have been claimed by now, and students are milling about, awkwardly showing off the creature to other students, or sitting under trees and playing with the creepy stretched out cats. There’s only one left; it’s squeaking, foaming at the mouth, and has Dev backed into a corner.

He makes a great leap for the animal and lands on top of it, and the two go rolling over, thrashing in the grass until Dev emerges victorious, the screaming polecat fighting against his grip as he marches toward me, a horrified look on his face.

“Philippa Stainton! Phillippa Stainton, that’s my match. Can you fucking believe it?”

The polecat is growling. Literally growling, its little fangs out and its paws swatting at thin air, desperate for something to hit. It looks possessed. I’m tempted to ask Bunce if she’s in there.

“Aw, you and Niall can be brother-in-laws,” I say, bending down to inspect the polecat. I reach out and put my hand on its head to pet it, and it growls at me and tries to bite. I think it might curse me out if it could.

“It kind of looks like Snow,” I say, delighted, placing my hand on its head. “Look how huffy it’s getting.”

“Agatha Wellbelove!” It squeaks, and I almost fall over. Dev looks ready to kill me.

“Why do you get Wellbelove? What the fuck? That’s not fair! You’re gay!”

“It’s life’s great tragedy. I’m clearly the only man good enough for her.” I grin and reach out for the polecat. “Ags has to see this. She’ll lose her mind.”

The animal struggles against my arms, and it takes far more concentration than it should to abscond with the animal and slip into the block of classrooms where I know Wellbelove is practising remedial phrases with Professor Hollow. It’s trying to gain its freedom by clawing through my body.

“You’re getting awfully antagonistic toward Craig Stainton,” I say as we walk, my arms full of polecat. “Aren’t you — oi, watch it, you little fuck — happy for Niall?”

“Sure, I want him to be happy,” Dev says, shrugging. “Just, why Stainton? Niall doesn’t even know him. They had almost never spoken before this summer. And he’s hideous.”

“No he’s not,” I correct, and reach out to catch the polecat just as it springs from my arms. “Besides, Niall says he’s apparently wildly useful with those nice hands of his.” Dev makes a vomiting sound, and I smirk. “Surely you can respect that. It’s half of why you stayed with Frenchy whatever her name is.”

“No it’s not,” Dev mumbles.

“Are you kidding? Ouch!” I snatch my hand back. “You made me listen to fucking sonnets about her breasts. Do you have any idea how much I hated that? Lay off and let Niall have his fun. You certainly did.”

“That’s the thing though,” Dev says, his dark eyes darting around the hallway. “I didn’t. I wanted to, but it just wasn’t — I didn’t — I barely knew her, you know? And when it came down to it I don’t think I can be with someone I don’t—”

“Agatha Wellbelove!” the polecat growls, trying to get at my face. “Agatha Wellbelove!”

“Yes, I know, would you just—” I say, but the polecat won’t stop squirming, worming its way up my chest and toward my neck. “I’m going to ring your little—”

Dev and I freeze as the sound of footsteps approaches.

“Ditch the ferret!” he hisses, and I look around wildly, trying to find a place to store it, but the only door in this area of the hall leads to Possibelf’s office.

But Possibelf is on the lawn.

I tear open the door, fling the polecat inside, and slam it closed as quickly as possible, just in time to see Snow round the corner.

He pulls up short when he sees us, his brow furrowed. He looks suspicious. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I’ve been trying to think of something to cheer him up. This is just the ticket.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were at the weasel mating thing?”

“It’s not mating—” Dev starts, but I cut him off.

“Looking for you, actually,” I respond, putting my hands in my pockets and praying to every god I know of that there aren’t claw marks on my face. “Possibelf wants to see you in her office.”

Dev gives me a weird look.

“Why?”

I shrug.

“Who knows. See you.”

I grab Dev’s elbow and steer him quickly away from the door and back around the corner, just in time to hear the office door swing open, followed by a thudding noise, Snow’s surprised shout, and a growled, “Penelope Bunce!”

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” Dev hisses as we run. I shush him, even though there’s no need; Snow can’t hear anything right now over his yells of pain. I feel a little bad for him. But not that bad. A little distraction from life’s woes is a good thing.

“He’s going to kill you,” Dev pants as we slide into the dining hall. Perfect timing. Lunch is about to start.

“He’ll have to catch me first,” I say, adjusting my tie and getting in line for tea.

“You two have really weird fucking ways of showing affection,” Dev mumbles as we sit down at our usual table, where Niall is already waiting, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other.

“Snow and Baz?” he asks, nudging another cup of tea toward Dev. “I reckon it’s actually impossible for them to be nice to each other at this point. If they ever get married, their vows will be a fist fight.”

I clear my throat loudly and glare at him.

“Thanks for getting me tea,” I snark, and Niall’s ears turn pink. Dev, who is sighing over his own tea, misses my comment entirely.

“How’s Craig?” Dev asks, looking up from his tea suddenly. One of Niall’s red eyebrows goes up, and he and I make brief eye contact. Despite Dev bitching about Stainton not even half an hour ago, he asks after him regularly.

“Er, alright, I suppose. He’s a bit stressed. He’s thinking of not going to uni, actually.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Dev says, and Niall nods.

“That’s what I said.”

Dev passes Niall the creamer, and Niall takes it without looking up.

“Oh, did you see the score for—”

“Yeah, I’ve got the game recording back in the room actually, I thought we could—”

“Brilliant,” Dev nods, then takes a sip of tea.

“Brilliant,” Niall says, and looks back down at his book. I stare at them.

I don’t understand them at all, but sometimes I think they’re worse than Snow and I.

Snow skips lunch, much to my eternal surprise, but he’s in the room when I get back, pouting. He’s sitting on the windowsill, knees up, listening to The Fratellis. That’s not good. They’re his angry music.

There are three long scratches across his cheek, and I kind of want to lick them. I realise that I could, actually. He’d probably be into it. But instead I survey him curiously and gesture at his cheek.

“What happened?”

“I’m dating a fucking asshole, that’s what happened,” he mutters. I grin.

“I can kiss it better,” I say, moving toward him, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t bother. Want to go to the pitch with me?”

His sudden change of mood catches me off guard, and I pause. His eyes bore into mine, and he puts on his fighting face.

“You owe me.”

He’s right. I do. And watching him run around in shorts is hardly a sacrifice.

“Fine, just let me change,” I say, going to my wardrobe to retrieve my kit.

And then hell descends.

“Agatha Wellbelove! Agatha Wellbelove!” comes a grunting, panting voice as a small body flies out of my wardrobe, spin kicks across my face, and then lands on the floor and scurries under my bed.

Snow nearly loses his mind laughing.

“You brought it _back here?_ ” I growl, rubbing at my chin. “Why would you bring it to our room?”

“Payback,” he says, smiling widely, showcasing his stubby, uneven teeth, his cheeks pushing up into his eyes.

“Yes, yes, that’s very nice and all. But now we have _that_ loose in the room,” I say, staring pointedly at my bed, which is rocking slightly and emitting a growling noise.

“Oh,” Snow says. I nod.

“Oh.”

“It’s just a ferret. It can’t be that hard to catch; I did it once before,” he says, getting off the windowsill and getting on all fours in front of my bed. His trousers strain across his thighs and I look on appreciatively, until he turns around and catches me.

“Stop being a perv and get down here,” he mutters, and I clamber down as gracefully as I can, just as Snow shoves his arm under my bed.

There’s a squeak and a growl and a hiss and Snow pulls his hand back immediately.

“Alright, stand back,” I say, rolling up my sleeves and reaching for my wand. Snow catches my hand.

“No! Don’t hurt him!”

“He’s a pest. You do realise I eat things bigger than this for stress release?”

Snow rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Still, don’t hurt Merlin.”

“ _Merlin_?” I ask, sitting back on my heels. “You named it? Snow, it belongs to the school, we can’t keep it as a pet.”

“Maybe we could,” he mutters, and I let out a bark of disbelieving laughter.

“So what do you suggest, we let it squat in our room?”

Snow shrugs, and the corner of his mouth tilts up.

“I’m just saying, we might have an easier time if we let him trust us first. You know, get comfortable, get to know us, instead of charging forward and being all mean and insulting to it.”

“Is this a metaphor?” I ask. “Because this really feels like a metaphor.”

Merlin growls his agreement with me. He thinks it’s a metaphor as well.

Snow just shrugs and brings a freckled hand up to rub at the back of his neck, and I know I’m done for. I’m going to let a fucking weasel live in my room, just because Snow thinks it’s funny.

How the mighty have fallen.

“This is so unsanitary,” I say, folding my arms. “He sleeps on your bed. And when he makes a nest of all your trackies and pisses all over them, I’m going to give him bacon.”

Snow is annoyed, but there’s a small hint of amusement on his face, and he huffs.

“You started it,” he mumbles. He’s right. I did. But he still crowds into my space anyway, the way he does everytime I annoy him to death. My pulse quickens a little, and my chest aches with the unbearable fucking tightness and warmth I feel whenever he’s being stupid and beautiful and good, and when he kisses me I can’t help it.

“He’s going to eat your face while you sleep and make a home in your hair,” I whisper against his lips. Merlin growls again, and Snow loses it.

“You’re so fucking unbearable,” he mutters, putting his hand on the back of my neck. “Just let us have something nice.”

I hum against his mouth and capture his bottom lip between mine and push him back so we’re both sitting, leaning against the wall, and I kiss him more thoroughly, inhaling the spicy, smoky smell of his magic and his cheap Imperial Leather soap and taste of his generic mint toothpaste and all the scents and tastes that are so incredible Simon, and I smile.

“This is pretty nice,” I say, and I kiss him again.

 

*******

 

In a year of escalating bad decisions, I’m really hoping this isn’t one of them.

“Just focus,” I say, gentle yet direct. Snow glares at me through his curly fringe. It’s getting long. I know in a few days when he’s back at a care home he’ll shave it all off again, and I hate to think about it. Any of it.

“You focus,” he mutters, kicking at a nearby rock, before closing his eyes again, squaring his shoulders, and attempting to concentrate.

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to do any of this, but his magical control is getting worse. Each time he’s with the Mage, he gets worse, and while they ran out of phobuses to blow up, Snow is more of a loose canon than ever.

I don’t want him to go back to the normal world, alone and unable to control himself.

There’s a sharp, burning smell filling the small clearing of the Wood we’re in, alerting me to the fact that his power is starting to build. His hair is sticking out at angles, the air is starting to crackle, and any moment now the black heat waves will start.

“Get… down…” he grits out through clenched teeth. But instead of backing away, I step toward him.

“Focus on me,” I say. “Focus on me.”

“Baz,” he warns, shaking his head. He scrunches his eyes, trying to breathe deep. His hand scrabbles toward his pocket, like he’s reaching for his iPod, but it’s not there. It’s in my pocket, along with my own mobile, because I told him he couldn’t use music to try to calm himself down.

I told him I was going to help him, and Merlin help me, I will.

“Baz, whatever you’re planning, don’t—”

“You won’t hurt me,” I tell him, now close enough to touch. “Now shut up.”

“What—”

But I cut him off by pressing my lips to his mouth, and putting my hands on his hips. He startles in surprise, and I pull back just enough to see his blue eyes go wide with panic, but I kiss him again. His magic crackles against my lips, and I deepen the kiss, trying to communicate with him that this is okay, that this is safe, that he won’t hurt me. If I can get him to relax — to calm down, to settle into something he knows, something that soothes him — then maybe it’ll help him learn to control his power surges.

“Baz, I don’t—”

“Shut up,” I snarl, pulling his bottom lip between my own and wrapping my arms around his waist firmly. “Shut up and kiss me back.”

He does. He’s always been good at taking orders.

His hands unclench and he drags them up to settle on my chest and he kisses me back, and I can feel him calming, can feel the tension leaving his shoulders, and then —

My body lights up as energy floods through me. Not energy. Magic.

Simon.

Every nerve in my body is screaming, my pulse is racing, my blood is coursing and humming in time to him and his magic and he’s _pushing_ it into me through the hands on my chest, and it feels good. I feel _clean_ and _powerful_ , like I’ve been struck by holy lightning. It feels fucking amazing. If this is what heroin feels like, then no wonder every musician I love got hooked.

I break away from the kiss, my eyes wide, my pupils probably shot to hell, and stare at him, panting.

“Did you — did I?” he says, equally confused. I nod.

“I think you gave me your magic,” I say, letting out a shaky breath.

“What? That’s not—”

“Not possible, I know.”

I close my eyes and my hand reaches to my pocket, where my wand is stowed, and I pull it out.

“ ** _Rain, Rain, go away!_** ” I cast, pointing at the sky. It’s a tricky spell — all weather spells are — and one I’ve never tried before. The grey thunderclouds that have been moving in over us all day suddenly change course and drift away.

Snow lets out a slow curse.

“Merlin, that’s—”

“Kiss me again,” I command, grinning. I feel electrified. On fire. _Don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire_.

Except that’s exactly what I want Snow to do.

He lunges forward, an eager, goofy grin on his face and grabs me by the neck, our faces colliding. He kisses me eagerly — he’s always eager, when he initiates — and his hands slip into mine, and he… gives me his magic.

It’s not a push this time, not like before. This time it’s like he’s opening himself up, letting me in to access this bottomless store of power, and I go forward and pull on it gently, and little bits of fire — little bits of Simon — run through his hands and into my hands and up my body and through my lips back into his lips and back down into his hands in a never ending circuit of magic.

“Cast something,” he says, spinning us gently, so my back is to a tree. I wonder what this feels like for him. I feel drunk. I feel like there are ten songs playing through my body at once. I feel unbalanced, floating. I feel like I’m on the verge of a great unknown, the first explorer in a wilderness. An astronaut, set loose in a galaxy.

“ ** _Twinkle twinkle, little star_** _,_ ” I cast, and suddenly we’re no longer in the forest. We’re floating, surrounded by planets and stars and chunks of cosmos. He lets go of my hands and slides his around my waist, breaking off our kiss as he turns his cheek into my chest and stares.

I giggle. I fucking giggle like a schoolgirl.

“This is incredible,” I breathe, looking away from the stars and back down to him. His eyes are wide, taking it in, amazed. “You’re incredible.”

 _Space Oddity_ is playing in my mind, looping one line over and over.  _And the stars look very different today_.

Snow looks back up at me, something unreadable on his face.

“You can use my magic,” he says. And I nod. I can use his magic. “You can control it.”  I nod. I can control it. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against my chest for a moment — just a single moment, before he lets out a long breath of shakey air.

“I think…. Do you think we could… We might be able to fight the—”

The stars go out.

It’s like we’re plunging back to earth, except we’re not going anywhere. We never left. Snow’s arms tighten around me, and my hand goes around his waist like a steel vice, and we both shift, turning to look out at the dark forest around us, just as—

The forest is gone.

The air is gone. The earth is gone, everything is dark and then—

“Simon?” my voice is hoarse. It’s difficult to speak, because the air is sandy. Everything hurts, like the very atmosphere is pulling at my skin and blood and eyes. Everything hurts, and it’s hot, and dry and—

“Lancashire,” Simon says from beside me. He’s staring across the flat plane at a hideous sculpture rising up from the ground, like a tornado made of flutes. It’s whistling at us, the sound caught in it and stinging my ears but—

It’s not coming from the sculpture. It’s coming from the Humdrum.

I know it’s the Humdrum because I can feel it. This is what it feels like. I wouldn’t recognise the Humdrum by sight, because no one has seen it. But—

It looks like Simon.

Young Simon. Eleven years old. Matted hair, sallow bags under his eyes, too big clothes dripping off of him, his ears too big for his face. Simon, just like I saw him that first night on the Lawn at Watford. Clutching a red ball.

But he’s laughing. I never saw young Simon laugh like that.

I could almost laugh with him. The fucking _humdrum_? I’ve spent all year worrying about my mum and the Mage and it’s like I almost forgot that there was some big bad out there, just waiting to chow down on my boyfriend. And now it’s here, and we’re facing down the biggest threat there ever was to the world of mages and I’m just… underwhelmed. And confused. And distracted.

Simon goes tense beside me, and small Simon laughs in front of me, and my fangs push at my gums, and everything around me hurts, and I’m hungry.

I look at my Simon.

I’m so _hungry_.

My Simon is right here, and he smells like magic, and I’m _so hungry._

And my fangs won’t retract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS FEATURED IN THIS SECTION:**
> 
> [Damaged Goods](https://open.spotify.com/track/62uw0iWu8jLB4cYBQxjdcm?si=ZNSluSt1SMCWGiQPqan08Q) \-- Gang of Four
> 
> [Sympathy For The Devil](https://open.spotify.com/track/1iDcKYNvo6gglrOG6lvnHL?si=LNCthuTVQ2GpUyUWLwXjiA) \-- The Rolling Stones
> 
> [Life's A Gas](https://open.spotify.com/track/1MU62iuv0tVWWVkqHcY1tx?si=2OpNubpNS7iHKTlx1lJKJQ) \-- T. Rex
> 
> [Lola](https://open.spotify.com/track/0UAJH0k4k3slcE83a9UGCe?si=11oRlKeyQnesVyGqP3UxLA) \-- The Kinks
> 
> [Strangers](https://open.spotify.com/track/7obb4s6A7gf0Lc2AGxodMy?si=clZS1Z_9SLq8NG_CeygPsw) \-- The Kinks
> 
> [Mr. Brightside](https://open.spotify.com/track/7oK9VyNzrYvRFo7nQEYkWN?si=Xx8UpxXgSdeEt-z4I4AFcw) \-- The Killers
> 
> [Baba O'Riley](https://open.spotify.com/track/3qiyyUfYe7CRYLucrPmulD?si=T8Y5uxHsTei5U5xW697AXw) \-- The Who
> 
> [Starman](https://open.spotify.com/track/0pQskrTITgmCMyr85tb9qq?si=_FECqiapRtuHns5K69zNGQ) \-- David Bowie


	13. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUMMER HOLIDAY: J2O and warm blood. Pick pocketing and bacon butties. The gang tries their hand at organised crime, Niall is in charge of music, and Merlin makes an enemy. Baz has a very good time, and then he has a very bad time. Over the hills and far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen along? Check out Simon's  **[Goblin Garotting](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/1MF75zy3ne8pPDn4g1vbIx?si=N08pHyyNSYCCaB-4tmgvwQ)**  playlist and Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) playlist on Spotify.
> 
> **Chapter Title:** [Heroes — David Bowie](https://open.spotify.com/track/7Jh1bpe76CNTCgdgAdBw4Z?si=mYzjTN4PS9mBgdTYpcWV8A)
> 
> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
> 
>  **Authors Note:**  Hello and welcome back! We are in the home stretch, folks. I cannot believe it. The biggest of thank yous to the wonderful @Great-Merlins-Bear and @tbazzsnow for beta reading and listening to me ramble.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading along and being so wonderful. I live for your comments and your kind words! Always feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com/). xx - Ban
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:**  brief description of dead magical creature. Brief NSFW, nothing graphically described. If you want to skip the naughty bits, the paragraph starts with "His fingers tighten on my hip" and keep on cruising until "When the clocktower in the square chimes midnight..."

When Mordelia was four, she used to have nightmares about the Humdrum.

I didn’t know about it. Malcolm and Daphne never talked about it, except to sometimes reference her difficulty sleeping. I didn’t know what was upsetting her until I was staying at the manor one night and her cries woke me up.

Our rooms at the manor are just across from each other, and panic flared through me as I tried to get out of my oversized bed as quickly as I could, nearly tripping on my tangle of blankets. When I reached her room, she was sitting up in bed, her dragon night light flickering shadows through the room, and she was crying. Her loud sobs had settled down, but she was hiccuping fiercely, tears streaming down her puffy face.

“What’s this?” I’d asked, sitting on the edge of her pink comforter. She threw herself into my arms immediately, and the force of it almost knocked me backward. “Hey, come on little punk, what happened?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered into my t-shirt. “The… the Humdrum came and it ate father and it ate mum and then it ate you.”

“The Humdrum doesn’t eat people, it steals magic,” I said immediately, before realising that blunt reasoning wasn’t necessarily the best tactic here. I pulled her tiny body away and sat back further on the bed, trying to collect my thoughts.

“Why are you scared of the Humdrum?”

“Mum and father are scared of it,” she whispered. “Everyone is scared of it. And… and they said it tried to eat you. At school.” She hiccuped again. “What if it eats you and then it comes and eats me?”

“The Humdrum isn’t going to eat you or your magic,” I said calmly. “The Humdrum only wants one person, and it’s not you, or me. I promise you, we’re very safe.” It was a lie. Some days it felt like no one was safe.

“Who does it want?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“It wants a friend of mine,” I said, as honest as I could. It felt like a lie at the time; the idea of Snow and I being friends. “But luckily, he’s very good at magic.” Another lie. “And the Humdrum won’t eat him. In fact, sometime soon, he’s going to eat the Humdrum. You would not believe how much he can eat, I’m very confident that he’s up for the job.”

“What about you?” she whispered. “What if it eats you? What if it eats you to get to your friend?”

“I’m very good at magic too,” I told her. “Don’t worry. If the Humdrum comes after me, I’ll kick its arse.”

She’d giggled and sniffled, and then settled back into her bed.

“You’ll kick its arse,” she’d responded, and I nodded, smiling.

“I will. Just don’t say that to Daphne and father, alright?” She’d scrunched up her face and nodded seriously, then yawned.

“Can you…” she trailed off, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Can you put my music on for me?”

“Absolutely,” I’d told her. “Good thinking. The Humdrum hates music. It has awful taste.”

She’d laughed again and I had put on her music and she’d slowly drifted off to sleep, but not before whispering — more to herself than me, I think — “you’ll kick its arse.”

I’m not kicking its arse.

In fact, I’m fairly sure that everything I told Mordelia that night was a lie. I’m not beating the Humdrum, and neither is Simon, and I think it actually may eat me.

Or at least eat away my magic and my humanity.

My fangs won’t retract.

The Humdrum is here and Snow is screaming and I’m terrified because I can’t get my fangs to retract, and all I can do is stare at the pulse of Snow’s neck. My magic is gone, which I expected, but the sucking feeling is eating me alive from the inside out.

I’m living in a nightmare.

The Humdrum is _right there_ , wearing Snow’s face, laughing and bouncing that red fucking ball, and every piece of me feels like it’s being pulled apart.

“Why do you look like me?” Snow screams at the Humdrum.

“I am you. Well,” the Humdrum pauses, tilts its head and shrugs, and the movement is so Simon it hurts. “I’m what you left over. Like a little brother. Wouldn’t that be cool, to have a brother? Someone to hang out with.”

“What do you mean, ‘what I left over’?” Snow snarls. “Stop wearing my face!”

The Humdrum scrunches its (stolen?) face up.

“Don’t be such a tosser,” the Humdrum says. He sounds petulant, like Mordelia when I’m annoying her. Like he’s talking to his big brother. “You get everything. I’m just trying to have some fun.”

My teeth are on edge and I’m coming apart at the seams, but Snow doesn’t notice me. How is he handling this? Isn’t the Humdrum’s presence making him feel like this? But instead he looks content. Angry, but still relatively calm, and he relaxes his stance and crosses his arms and glares down at the Humdrum. He could be mimicking my own stance, except my arms are crossed against my stomach because I’m in pain.

I’m in so much pain.

“What do you mean fun? What are you doing?”

The Humdrum shrugs.

“The same thing you do. I take.” The Humdrum kicks at the dirt. “People are a lot nicer to you about it, though. You got a sword. I just got a dumb nickname.”

Snow is bleeding, and I don’t know how it happened, but my body is attuned to him entirely. My fangs really need to go the fuck away. I clench my eyes closed and try to push back the stabbing pains in my stomach, and I notice I’m bleeding as well. For a fleeting moment I wonder what would happen if I licked the blood off my arm. Would it help with the hunger?

“Why do you take magic?” Snow shouts. How is he so fucking composed? “Why do you make dead spots? Why do you send shit after me?”

“I don’t make the dead spots, you do!” the Humdrum shouts. “And I send things because I’m hungry. You know what I mean! I’m always hungry.” The Humdrum sounds sad. Defeated. Small. “Nothing fills me up.”

“Snow, we need to get out of here,” I mumble, but both Snow and his evil mini-ganger ignore me. I have to look away from Snow, because I can smell his blood, coming off him in waves.

“Hey want to see a trick?” the Humdrum asks, its mood suddenly completely shifted, a shit eating grin on its face that is entirely, 100 per cent Simon. “Pull my finger.”

Snow, startled, reaches for it, and everything inside me screams that this can’t happen. The Humdrum can’t touch him. I won’t let it hurt him. I won’t let it eat him.

I push myself in front of Simon just as the Humdrum reaches out, and when it touches me my body goes cold and adrenaline floods my system. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff as the wind races at my back. Every nerve is screaming that I’m about to fall off.

“Oh, forget the trick,” the Humdrum says eagerly. “This is cool. I’ve never done this with a person before.” His small hand clamps around my wrist firmly and _pushes_ into me. But it’s not like Simon. This is a cold wave of aching nothing. It feels as though every piece of me, all my magic, all my essence, is getting pulled away, replaced by a gaping chasm of need and hunger.

Hunger. I’m so hungry. My magic is gone and my fangs won’t retract and I can’t remember why it is that I’m holding myself back. Snow is right there, full of blood and magic. He’s there for the taking. Why have I never just taken it? Why haven’t I drained him?

It would be so easy to take his lifeblood and the sparks that are running through it. It felt so good to have his magic in me. I need it. I think I need it, or I’ll waste away to nothing.

“Baz?” Simon says, reaching for me. He’s looking at me now, not the Humdrum. His blue eyes are on me and he’s reaching out for me and I could just _take_.

With my last ounce of will I shake my head.

“Don’t,” I grit out, holding my free arm out and trying to keep him at bay. “Hungry. Simon, I’m so—your magic, I’m so—” I stare at him in horror, and I start to cry. I can’t control myself. I’m not going to be able to stop myself. “I’m so hungry, and it’s your magic or your blood. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t look scared. He just looked understanding, and a sob tears from me.

“Take it,” he says, reaching for me again. “Take it.”

Our hands connect and he opens the tap and his magic floods in to me. But it doesn’t feel good like it did before. It doesn’t feel clean. It’s an instant, blinding relief, followed by a cold crush of disappointment. It’s flowing through me, lighting up my veins, and then being pulled out of me like a receding tide as it flows into the Humdrum.

It’s like a circuit, and I’m caught in the middle. Simon giveth, the Humdrum taketh away.

“This is all I wanted,” The Humrum says, his young face eager and open. “This is all I needed.”

“Simon, he’s taking it, he’s—”

But Simon’s jaw is squared, his shoulders hunched, unmoveable. Something has clicked with him, something I can’t understand, and he shakes his head.

“Let him have it. Let him have all of it.”

The Humdrum tries to reach out and grab my other hand, but Simon reaches him first, holding his tiny freckled wrist and looking past me to the small shade of a boy. He’s flickering. No, we’re flickering, a strobe light effect spinning up between the three of us as the magic courses through me like fire.

“I’m sorry,” Simon says, and I don’t know if he’s talking to me or the Humdrum.

“It’s okay,” the Humdrum and I say at the same time. He’s getting smaller, harder to see, his hold on me no longer tight. If I reached out now I don’t know if I could grasp him.

Suddenly the magic is too hot — too sharp, too prickling, and it’s not just Simon’s magic being pulled from me. It’s mine as well, it’s all of me, it’s parts of Simon. I’m being stretched thin, worn out. I don’t know how much longer I can act as a buffer for his magic. I don’t know how much of us is left. If we keep giving, the Humdrum will keep taking.

“Stop!” I say, almost sobbing through my fangs. “Simon, turn it off, stop. You’re giving too much—”

“I can’t,” he grits out. His eyes are blown wide in terror, the grim determination of the previous moment gone.

“Please,” I beg.

“I can’t.”

I close my eyes and with a guttural shout I reach forward, yanking myself away from the Humdrum’s thin grip and pressing my lips to Simon’s. My fangs are out, pressing against my lip and his and it’s so dangerous, so stupid, but—

The light around us explodes like a sonic boom, and then we are left in a ringing silence.

Snow and I fall to the ground, panting. The Humdrum is gone. The sucking, dry feeling is gone from the air, but my body is hollowed out. I’ve been burnt clean. There’s nothing left of me but hunger and terror and confusion.

“Simon?” I ask, gripping him. My voice punches out like a sob. He looks nearly unconscious. What did I do? What did I almost do? I nearly — “Simon?”

“I’m okay,” he grunts, breathing hard. My breath explodes out of me in a desperate sigh of relief. He’s alive. I didn’t hurt him. “I’m okay. We need to...”

I look around at the field. What do we need to do? We should do something. But I don’t know what that is. Everything is blank. The Humdrum is gone but I still feel nothing.

We should move. I need to feed. We need to — we need to do something. We need to get back. We need to keep going.

“Come on,” I say, bending over and grabbing at his hand. “We need to move. There’s a village, just over—”

He lets me pull him up and nods blankly, and we set off down the hill, unsteadily trying to support each other. We’re both covered in blood. I don’t know how I have any blood to spare, but it’s still leaking from my pores, and Simon’s as well — and pus too, bizarrely, which is for the best because it cuts across the smell of the blood and keeps me from latching on to him.

But I can’t think about that. I can’t think about that moment, that split second when I almost wasn’t able to control myself.

He has my hand in a death grip, even though it makes walking difficult, and I’m not for a moment going to tell him to stop.

I don’t know how long it takes us to get down the hill and back to the village. It’s growing dark and has started to mist, which only smears the blood in sticky tracks across our skin instead of properly clearing it off.

“Rabbit,” Snow says suddenly, pulling us up short.

“What?”

“Rabbit,” he repeats, pointing at a lazy brown bunny sniffing nearby. “Drink.”

I want to argue with him, but I can’t. I’m too exhausted, too in shock, and so I lurch forward, grabbing the small creature. I break its neck, then bury my fangs into it and drain it dry. Snow watches me, his face completely blank as I feed. The blood eases the throbbing in my head enough that I can focus slightly and think.

Action. We need a plan.

“Train,” I say, gesturing toward the tracks running past the field we’re standing in. “We need to get to the train station.”

“We need to wash this blood off,” Snow says. “Do you think you could cast a spell?”

I shake my head.

“I’m dry. You?”

He’s silent, so uncharacteristically silent as he shakes his head.

“I... I am too. I can’t... I can’t feel my magic. I’ve never gone dry before, I don’t—”

He’s panicking, I can tell. His words are getting faster and his breath is quickening, and I need him calm. No thinking. One thing at a time. I pull him to me.

“Train,” I say again, and he nods, puts his hand in mine, and we set off again, still silent. As we go, Snow eases his grip on my hand, but I don’t. I can’t let him go. If I let him go I feel like I may drift away and turn to nothing in the dark field we’re traipsing through.

When we get to town it’s dark enough that no one notices we’re covered in blood, and we duck into the first toilet we see.

Snow stands patiently while I use a brown paper towel to clean blood off of his face, and then he does the same for me. His motions are gentle, but slightly disconnected. He’s going through the motions. He stares past me when I turn to keep washing myself, and the blankness in him terrifies me. What if the Humdrum took too much? What if it took him?

What if the Humdrum ate him?

“I don’t have any money,” I say suddenly, stopping in the middle of scrubbing my arms up to my elbows.

“I’ll take care of it,” Snow rasps, pushing back from the sink and exiting the toilet. Small relief fills me. At least some of him is still there. He’s just on autopilot. I watch him go, then turn back to the mirror.

My fangs have gone down, but I’m still hungry. It’s a manageable hungry though, not like before.

And I look like shit. Snow and I have matching purple bags under our eyes, and my skin feels both dried out and greasy. My hair is a wreck, poofing around my head in thick, curly waves.

But I don’t look like I’ve been through much of a battle.

I guess it’s because I haven’t, not really. I don’t know what that was.

I don’t really know how to process this.

I fix my tie to the best of my abilities and leave the toilet. Snow is leaning against the railing across from me, flipping through a leather money clip. He pulls several notes out, then dumps the clip and the credit cards in the rubbish bin next to him.

“Found us money for tickets,” he says. I don’t ask how.

We buy tickets from an automated machine and then collapse on a bench to wait for our train. Snow hands me my ticket and as I put it in my pocket, I feel the hard shape of my mobile and Snow’s iPod.

“Oh,” I say, pulling my phone out dumbly. “I have a phone.”

We both stare at it for a long moment, as if we’ve forgotten what it’s meant to do.

“We should tell someone what happened,” he says. I nod. “We should... get back to school. Tell the Mage. They should know. He should know we—”

“Simon,” I interrupt. “We defeated the Humdrum.”

He turns to stare at me.

“We defeated the Humdrum.”

I crack into a wide smile, one tinged with hysteria.

“Fuck the Mage. We’re going to London. We’re going to get cleaned up and eat something and go to sleep and the Mage and everyone can wait because we defeated the fucking Humdrum.”

“Can we do that?” His face scrunches up in alarm.

“I think you can do pretty much anything you want now.”

He turns away from me and stares out across the train station. There’s still blood smeared on his ear.

“Let’s go to London then.”

 

***

We fall into silence as we wait for the train, and then board it just as quietly, taking two seats in the back. Snow takes the window and I take the aisle, and I send Wellbelove a quick text saying Snow and I are alright, we had a run in with the Humdrum, we’ll be at my flat, and then I turn my phone off. I don’t know how long it will be before she gets my text, but I don’t have it in me to have a conversation.

I pull out Snow’s iPod and hand it to him, and he takes it silently, unwrapping the headphones and offering me one earbud. When I put it in, Snow hits play.

The Beatles washes over us — _Hey Jude_ — and I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep. I’m still tingling, still on fire. When I close my eyes the lights are still strobing.

Snow leans against me, gently at first, his head resting on my shoulder, and the relief of having him here almost breaks me. The rocking motion of the train pushes him gently against me, and finally I adjust, shifting in my seat so he can nod off against my chest, and I keep our hands clasped.

I don’t know how he’s able to sleep. I’m exhausted, but on fire. The enormity of what just happened is starting to hit me, and my thoughts start to circling in time with the scraping of the train tracks. _We killed the Humdrum. I channeled Simon’s magic. I nearly drained Simon. We killed the Humdrum._

Snow sleeps through the entire three hour trip. He nods off twenty minutes after we leave Burnley and doesn’t wake until we pull into London Euston and I shake him. He blinks and smiles up at me for a moment, disoriented, and I can see the moment that his memory catches up. His light flickers, and my breath catches.

Fiona and I live just a few streets down, so it’s a short walk. It’s full on night when we get there, and I push open our gate to reveal the dark windows of our home.

I didn’t stop to think about whether Fiona would be home or not, but the flat is quiet and when I unlock the door using the key Fiona hides behind the miniature gargoyle, no one returns my hello.

Snow looks ready to drop. I feel ready to drop. The initial burst of energy that saw us down the hill and to the village and onto the train is gone, and both of us are running on energy we no longer have. It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far.

“Shower, then food, then sleep,” I say, and Snow just nods, kicks off his trainers by the door and follows me to my room. It’s not the circumstance I thought I’d be in when Snow first saw my childhood bathroom. But then again, I suppose life never works out the way we want it to when we’re thirteen.

I collect towels and turn on the shower and Simon waits, a silent husk of a boy, as the water warms up.

“Towels there, I’ll leave clothes for you on the bed,” I tell him, and he startles at my voice, his eyes wide, and reaches out.

“I don’t—” he starts, then closes his mouth and starts again. “I—”

I wait for him to find his words.

He looks at the floor of the bathroom and whispers when he does.

“I can’t feel my magic and I don’t know what’s happening and I’m scared.”

I close my eyes against the feelings trying to press into me. One thing at a time. I’m still in survival mode. No time to feel.

“Arms up,” I whisper, and he complies without argument, allowing me to strip his bloody jumper and school shirt off. He kicks off his trousers of his own accord, and then climbs into the shower, still wearing his boxers.

I take a deep breath, peel off my own shirt and trousers, and follow him in. He doesn’t even question it, just leans his head against my chest for a long moment as the warm water rushes over us. My arms are too heavy to even come up and hold him.

Finally he finds energy from somewhere and uncorks the shampoo, dumps it on his head, and scrubs it in fiercely. Before I have time to argue, he squirts another handful onto my head and rubs at my scalp with rough, large hands. In the back of my mind I realise that this isn’t the first time that Snow has washed my hair for me, and that afternoon with the skanks in our bathroom at Watford feels like it happened in a different lifetime.

I can’t focus on how we manage to get rinsed. It’s like time stopped in the shower, frozen in the middle of Snow’s bare skin and the steam of the water and the swirling blood going down the drain. All I remember is leaning against him and his arms around me. And crying. It’s ridiculous. I don’t cry. Simon is the crier.

I don’t even know what I’m crying about; whether it’s exhaustion or relief of shock. But his arms tighten around me and he lets me heave empty sobs into his shoulder, and I hear him sniffle as well, and his body shakes against me. I don’t know why he’s crying either. I guess it’s just the thing to do.

Once out, I pull on a pair of old joggers and a Watford sweatshirt, and Snow takes a pair of my boxers and a hoodie. His curls are still wet enough to cause small dark patches of damp on the grey fabric.

“I need to eat,” I say, looking up from watching Snow put on a pair of my socks. He nods. I’m relieved that neither of us are able to speak about emotions and feelings. Apparently our crying jag in the shower was enough to get us through, and now we’re back to shutting it out. It’s a relief that we’re functioning on the same level right now, just pushing ourselves through basic survival.

He pads behind me quietly as we head into the kitchen, and he pulls himself up on the counter to watch me rummage through the fridge. I hand him a J2O and then return to my hunt for blood.

I’m lucky — it’s close enough to the end of school that Fiona has already stocked the fridge with blood for me, so I pull out one of the containers and put it in the microwave. Normally I’d heat it with my magic, but I’m dry. That’s not happening tonight.

We watch the ceramic mug containing my dinner swirl round and round the microwave, and then it comes to a stop and the machine beeps loudly through the empty flat. When I open the microwave door, the dim yellow shine is the only light in the dark kitchen.

I take out the mug and drain it in three gulps. Just your regular teenage vampire having a midnight snack.

“Do you want something?” I ask him, wiping my mouth and dropping the mug in the sink. It’s the first thing I’ve said since before we showered. He shakes his head. I should be more worried by this — Simon Snow losing his appetite has to be a symptom of death. But that’s a problem for tomorrow Baz.

“Come on then,” I say, heading back to my room. He hops down from the counter and follows me like a dog.

When we get to my room, Snow goes straight to the bed and collapses on top of it, laying on his back to stare up at the ceiling.

Suddenly all the energy that I’ve been missing comes back to me, and the idea of laying down in the silence feels unbearable. I cross to my bookshelf and open up my record player, then dig through my records untIl I find what I’m looking for. I pull it out of the sleeve, put it on, and drop the needle exactly where I know the song I want starts.

The thin rasping sound of the record relaxes me enough to turn around, climb on the bed, and crawl over to Snow.

I lay on my back next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and we listen to the music.

 

_I, I will be king_

_And you, you will be queen_

_Though nothing, will drive them away_

_We can beat them, just for one day_

 

“We defeated the Humdrum,” he says quietly. I hum.

“That was unexpected, yes.”

“Everything I’ve done has been in preparation of beating him and it just... happened. It actually happened.”

I let his words wash over me for a moment and consider them as best as I can. What’s the protocol for moving on when you’ve completed the task you’ve spent your entire life preparing for? What do you do when you’re a Chosen One who has served his purpose?

“I don’t think things like this usually happen like they do in the movies, with some dramatic showdown in the final act,” I say quietly. “I think it just… happens.”

 

_Though nothing, will keep us together_

_We could steal time, just for one day_

 

“What do I do now?” he whispers, rolling over to his side to look at me. I roll onto mine as well to face him. I can see his freckles in the dim light of the room, and I reach out and hold his hand.

“We sleep,” I tell him, stroking my thumb over his knuckles. “We let the World of Mages fuck off for one night and we stay here with just us and we sleep.”

Snow closes his eyes and nods, then rests his head against my shoulder.

“We defeated the Humdrum,” he whispers, and I bring my arm around him.

“You defeated the Humdrum,” I respond. “Now sleep, love.”

 

_We can be heroes, just for one day_

_We can be us, just for one day_

 

I reach down and pull the blanket up over us so we’re tucked in and warm, and I bury my face in Simon’s hair, and listen to David Bowie, and try to not think about what comes next.

 

***

 

What comes next is yelling. Lots of it.

I wake to a dark room. The record has shut off and Snow is curled up in a tight ball next to me, his feet tangled in mine, his fist clenched in my shirt. There are voices outside my room, muffled at first, but clearer as sleep leaves me.

“You are not coming in this fucking house.”

Fiona. Clearly Fiona.

“I can and I will. If Simon is—”

“You can’t just force your way in where you want. This flat is not Coven property and you have no right—”

“Miss Pitch, I think you’ll find I have every right—”

I get up from the bed slowly, careful to not wake Simon, and slip out the door. The living room light is on and when I pass through the kitchen I can see and hear the whole argument better.

Fiona and Malcolm are stood on one side of the door, fuming, while the Mage and a very awkward looking Dr. Wellbelove are on the other.

“Please keep your voices down, Snow is asleep,” I say. My voice is hoarse and raspy, but all four adults jump and turn to look at me. Fiona breaks first, flying toward me and putting her hands on my shoulders as she looks me over.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“What happened? Did you really — is it done?”

I swallow, despite my dry mouth, and nod.

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

“Where’s Simon?” The Mage cuts in. During the distraction he’s gained ground and managed to enter the flat, Dr. Wellbelove behind him.

“He’s sleeping,” I repeat. “It took a lot out of us, of him especially.”

“Is he hurt?” Dr. Wellbelove asks.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Why did you leave school?” the Mage demands. “How did you get here?”

“The Humdrum pulled us out. We were in the Wood and then suddenly we were in Lancashire. Snow recognised it. The Humdrum was there and — it was corporeal. You could touch it.”

“What did it look like?”

I pause. I don’t want them to know. The pieces are starting to click together in my own head, it’ll be no time before they realise it too, and if they know—

“Me. It looked like an eleven year old me.”

Everyone turns to stare at Simon, who has just emerged from the kitchen, blinking and bleary eyed. He still has his hood up, his curls smashed down by sleep, and he’s completely unconcerned that he’s standing in front of everyone in my boxers.

He looks at me and smiles with half his face, then turns back to the adults. His body is rigid. He’s holding himself in his fighting stance.

“He said all this stuff about being nothing, about being left over, and then he grabbed Baz, and Baz—”

“Distracted him,” I cut in. “I distracted him and then Simon went off. Blew him up. Strobing lights and everything and then he was gone.”

Snow looks at me curiously, and I try to communicate for him to trust me. Please, please just trust me.

“Yeah,” Snow says slowly. “Yeah. That’s…what happened.”

“This is unexpected,” the Mage says. His eyes are wide, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to know how to process the news that the biggest threat to the world got handled while he was off screen. “You’ve done very well, Simon. Very well. I wish you had called me though.”

“Students aren’t allowed mobile phones, sir,” I say dryly, and the Mage flashes me a look that could kill.

“Come on Simon, we’ve a long drive back to Watford. We’ll talk in the car, and then I’ll take you back to London myself tomorrow.”

“London?” Snow asks.

“Well, yes,” the Mage answers. “Term is over. I’ve already arranged for you to go to a home in London this summer. There’s so much for us to talk about though. Have you eaten? We’ll stop for food on the way.”

“He’s not going back into a care home,” I snarl, stepping sideways and slightly in front of him for the second time today.

“Son, this isn’t your choice. Arrangements have been made already,” the Mage says, his voice tight. He’s being painfully polite to me, and I don’t know if it’s because there are other people around, or because I just helped defeat the Humdrum and he knows he has to be.

“The boy isn’t going anywhere, Llewelyn,” Fiona says, her voice sharp. The Mage turns to stare at her, incredulous. Dr. Wellbelove and Malcolm look excruciatingly awkward.

“I don’t see how that is your business.”

“He just killed the fucking Humdrum, he’s not going back to juvie,” Fiona snarls, and all the love I hold for my crazy, mean aunt swells tenfold. She’s doing this for me, and me alone. “He can stay here for the summer.”

The Mage looks nearly purple.

“With all due respect, why would Simon stay here? You and your family have never been kind to him — have actively worked against him, and you want me to grant you guardianship of him?”

“Can’t I stay at Watford? Or with someone else?” Snow asks, his voice cracking slightly. He’s stepped forward to put a hand on my arm, and I don’t think it’s for support — I think he’s trying to hold me back in case I try to lunge forward and kill his father figure.

“Simon can stay with us,” Dr. Wellbelove says suddenly, and everyone turns to stare at him. I think we had all forgotten he was there. “Really,” he continues. “Diana and I think of him as a son already. We love having him. And he shouldn’t have to go back there. You’ve always said you send him away for his safety, but if the Humdrum is gone…”

The Mage rubs at his moustache.

“That’s true,” he says slowly. “I suppose I’ve lived so long being concerned for his safety…” he smiles and I try to repress a snort. Like this man has ever been concerned for Simon’s safety. “But things are different now. I can hardly believe…” he laughs quietly to himself. “Yes. Yes, John, that’s fine. Simon can go with you for the summer.”

Snow’s eyes are huge, like he can barely believe what’s happening, but Dr. Wellbelove just nods.

“I’ll take him back with me tonight, then. I’ll have Agatha pack up his belongings for him.”

The Mage nods, looking slightly overwhelmed. I can actually kind of relate.

“Yes. Yes. I’ll be by tomorrow, to talk to Simon further. Come along Simon, I’ll walk you two out.”

Simon looks at me, his eyes huge, and I feel the same. It’s so much, so suddenly. The Humdrum gone. Simon not going back into care. And now he’s leaving for the summer, for an entire summer, and he’s about to walk out the door without me getting to say goodbye to him, or see how he’s feeling, or—

“Wait,” I say quickly. “Snow might want trousers.”

Everyone suddenly looks down and notices that Snow is standing there in a pair of my old patterned boxers, and then everyone immediately looks away, embarrassed. My father’s face turns a bright pink. Simon reaches a similar shade.

“Oh, er, right. Yeah. Just one second,” he says, turning around and heading back toward my room. I follow him quickly and edge past him to my door.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, pulling open my dresser. He moves to stand next to me, crowding into my side in the way he always does when he’s slightly nervous.

“Yeah, I just… can’t believe it. A summer not at a care home.”

“We’ll be able to talk,” I say quickly, digging through my trousers. “Wellbelove will let you use her phone.”

“We may even be able to see each other,” he whispers, and my heart thuds rapidly.

“Are you sure you’re okay? If you don’t want to leave, I can start a fight. Fiona will back me up.”

He exhales a large huff of air and smiles into my shoulder.

“No. No, I’m okay.” He looks up. “Why did you lie? About what happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” I whisper, pulling out a pair of football trackies. “Just… go with it? I’ll call you. Tomorrow.”

He nods and pulls the trackies on quickly as I turn to the closet and pull out a pair of old trainers.

“Thanks,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of my hoodie and looking up at me. It’s almost unbearable to see him like this; in my room, in my clothes, still sleepy, bronze curls glinting off the dim light from the kitchen. It’s almost unbearable how much I love him, and now he’s leaving. Everything is happening so quickly. I feel like I’m spiraling, panic building up in my chest. I don’t want him to leave. He’s holding me together.

“It’ll be okay,” he says suddenly. “I’ll be okay.”

He grabs my shirt and pulls me in, kissing me quickly and roughly. He’s pouring everything he has left into it, and the force and desperation of it catch me by surprise. Almost as soon as I bring my hand up to cup his cheek, he breaks off and steps back.

“I’ve got to go,” he breathes. “I’ll call you. Or come see you. Or something. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

I nod, not quite ready to speak, and he leaves my room and heads back through the kitchen. After a moment I follow him, emerging back into the living room just to see him and Dr. Wellbelove and the Mage heading down the hallway, Fiona behind them. The Jack Russell Terrier look she had previously reserved for Snow has now been trained on the Mage.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Malcolm asks, breaking the silence in the room, and I tear my eyes from Snow to shake my head. Malcolm swallows thickly and runs his hands over his thighs, then crosses the room and grabs my shoulder with a firm grasp.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says quietly, and something large begins to travel up my throat.

“It was Snow,” I say, clearing my throat. “It was all him.”

“The Humdrum is gone. This changes everything,” Malcolm says quietly, as the sound of the door closing echoes through the flat. Simon is gone, and so is the Mage. My first chore of the summer will be disinfecting everything.

“Not everything.”

 

***

 

“I’m going to the shop. Please do not blow anything up, and I swear to Circe if that fucking ferret is in my room when I get back, I’ll have your heads.”

Dev, Niall and I look up from the kitchen table in mock innocence, pretending for all the world like we haven’t been sneaking Merlin into Fiona’s bedroom all summer.

With everything that happened, I’d actually forgotten about him. Apparently when Niall and Wellbelove went to pack up our belongings to send home, they’d gotten into a fight over who was taking Merlin.

Niall lost.

I’d foolishly thought he could probably just exist happily in my room for the duration of the summer hols, but then one day I woke up to Fiona cursing and the wildly, frenzied grunts of “ _Charles Hollow! Charles Hollow!_ ” and I knew the proverbial snake cat was out of the bag.

She’s been spiffing about it, all things considered. Sometimes she and Merlin sit in the garden to smoke and drink coffee together, but that’s only when she thinks I’m not awake.

The rest of the time — like now — she keeps up this charade of hating him.

Niall raises his teacup in a salute to Fiona, who is still scowling from the doorway, and Dev nods politely.

“I fucking hate teenagers,” she mumbles, barely audible over the sound of the Dead Milkmen, then grabs her purse and sunglasses and slams out the door.

“So why are we being gathered?” Dev asks again. He’s wearing sunglasses as well, due to the fact that he and Niall apparently had a party with Fiona last night which involved a bottle of whisky. I was on the phone with Snow, however, so I had my silence spell up and missed it all.

I’m not particularly put out by it. I got to listen to Simon simultaneously try to fall asleep and watch _8 out of 10 Cats_. It’s stupid and overly sentimental and I would never admit it to anyone, but part of the only reason I’ve been able to breathe and function this summer is because every night I get to talk to Snow before I go to sleep.

“They’ll be here any moment, I’ll go over it then,” I say, reaching across for another piece of bacon. Dev looks put out, but he won’t be for long. There’s loads more bacon in the oven. I know better than to be unprepared.

There’s two knocks at the front door and then it swings open, my guests not waiting to be invited in. They know the drill by now.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking pink,” Wellbelove is saying from the other room. Bunce’s harsh laughter greets her words.

“No, but it’s just so predictable, don’t you think?”

“Is that a bad thing? Am I supposed to like purple instead and feel edgy about it?”

Snow appears in the doorway, his hands in his pockets and a harassed look on his face. He’s already kicked off his shoes by the front door, and he pulls off his cap and puts it on the counter. He’s sweaty and his face is flushed from the heat and he looks incredible.

“They’ve been fighting since we picked Penny up,” he says by way of greeting, crossing the room quickly. For a brief moment I think he’s heading to me, and I angle my chair slightly to greet him, but instead he goes past me without a word and walks straight into my room, returning a moment later with Merlin.

“There’s bacon in the stove,” I tell him, extremely offended that he picked the rat over me. I should have known better, though. He’s never affectionate in front of large groups of people. You would think that killing the Humdrum would give us permission to not give a fuck what people think about us, but mostly it’s just provided us with more car privileges.

Snow puts Merlin down on the counter and heads to the stove, squeezing my shoulder as he passes with one freckled hand. He’s gotten more tan this summer than usual, and his hair (which he hasn’t shaved off) has lightened from being in the sun. He’s been going along to all of Wellbelove’s equestrian shows and working as her personal stable boy. I’ve tagged along to a handful, but honestly, I’m just not very horsey.

 _If You Love Someone Set Them On Fire_ comes on and Dev puts his head on the table.

“Skip,” he groans. Snow turns around and frowns.

“No, don’t skip. This is Baz’s song.”

Dev, Niall and I turn and look at him, and he goes slightly pink. Precious.

“I just meant…you know. Fire. And… you know. Remember that time you set me on fire?”

Niall looks thoroughly nonplussed, and Dev looks deeply disturbed, but I just smile sharply at Snow.

“Can we please get on with it?” Dev moans. Niall pats him on the knee sympathetically and turns around in his chair to grab the coffee pot in order to refill Dev’s cup. Snow has stationed himself at the counter and is currently making an alarming number of bacon rolls.

“On with what?” Bunce asks, appearing in the doorway, Wellbelove in tow. Bunce is in a frighteningly purple sundress that matches her hair, while Wellbelove is in pink — pink shorts, white shirt with pink lettering, pink heart sunglasses on top of her head and a pink denim jacket.

“Bunce. Ags,” I say, nodding. I grin as Wellbelove pops the collar of her jacket. “A vision as always.”

“Yes, yes, beautiful, radiant, please, can we get on with it, everyone is here,” Dev grouches.

“Don’t mind him, he’s being a cock today,” Niall says, accepting a bacon roll from Snow.

“I’ve got a cracking migraine, it’s hot outside, and we’ve been summoned for some mysterious reason. Forgive me for not being thrilled. I’m on the verge of vomit.”

Bunce, Snow and Wellbelove take their seats — Snow sits at the table, Wellbelove perches on the window ledge, and Bunce pulls herself up onto the counter.

“I’m not hungover, but I am curious what’s going on,” Bunce agrees, fiddling with her large purple ring. Snow looks at me in a clear indication to get on with it, and I nod, standing up.

“Oh Crowley, there’s a presentation and everything,” Dev mumbles. Niall kicks him.

“I’ve asked you all here today because it’s time to make our next move in regard to discovering my mother’s killer,” I say. Bunce stops playing with her ring, and Dev slowly removes his sunglasses. “As you all know, we think the Mage may be hiding something incriminating in Wales. The last few months, my father and the other Old Families have been causing problems. Refusing to tithe, small skirmishes, being a general pain.”

“My mum is about up to here with it,” Bunce says, interrupting. “She says we should be focusing on coming together now that the Humdrum is gone, not driving ourselves further apart.”

“A lovely sentiment indeed,” I say, and Bunce glares at me. “But we’re not doing this to cause division. It’s to cause a distraction. Next weekend the Coven will be calling a special meeting over the course of three days, wherein the Mage and his supporters are going to sit down with Malcolm and other Old Family representatives and try to work out a compromise.”

“No one is going to agree to a compromise,” Dev says suddenly. “My dad says that there’s loads more support for the Old Families since you and Snow kicked the Humdrum. Turns out people aren’t as enamoured with the Mage when two teenagers managed to succeed where he kept fucking up.”

“I don’t really care about whether they come to a compromise or not,” I answer dryly. “All I care about is that for three days, the Mage and all his men and supporters will be distracted and busy and nowhere near Machynlleth.”

“You’re not serious,” Bunce says, and Dev nods, already picking up on where this is going.

“This is an awful idea,” he says, nodding. “I’m with Bunce. Don’t do it.”

“I didn’t say not to do it—” Bunce starts, but Wellbelove interrupts.

“Baz, are you sure you want to do this?” she asks quietly, spinning her sunglasses between her fingers. “I mean… everyone is kind of in awe of you right now. You and Simon. If you get caught breaking into the Mage’s house…. This could be really risky, and could end really badly.”

She looks around the kitchen for support, and Niall nods, looking guilty.

“You know I support your revenge, but don’t you… I don’t know. Want a break? It’s our last summer before we finish school,” he says softly. “Not even a month ago you and Snow took down the biggest threat to the World of Mages. Don’t you think you deserve a rest? Some fun?”

My stomach lurches. I didn’t expect everyone to love the idea, but I didn’t expect such a unified wall of objection. This is my mother. They know I’ve been waiting all year to move on the Mage, and this is my chance. But if no one will come with me…

I won’t go by myself.

Once upon a time I might have, but not anymore.

“Snow?” I ask, looking at my boyfriend and carefully removing any trace of emotion or insecurity or disappointment from my face. “What say you? Care for a road trip?”

Snow is silent for a long moment, looking around the kitchen. He has a bacon roll in his mouth, and he chews it painfully slow and then finally swallows and looks at me, making eye contact.

It’s all going to come down to him.

 

***

 

It takes four hours to get to Machynlleth, but it looks like it’s going to take us six.

“Fiona is texting you,” Niall says from beside me, gesturing to my phone. “She wants to know where her car is.”

I glance to my left, where Niall is sat in the passenger seat of Fiona’s MG, reading out directions and handling music. Snow, Wellbelove, Bunce and Dev are all squashed into the farce of a backseat, and we keep having to stop and cast “ ** _the more the merrier!_** ” in order to make room for them all — or at least to trick them into being fine with the clown car arrangements.

Snow had been in the front when we started (because I wanted him there and because he’s the bulkiest) but it quickly became clear that he was useless at navigating, so he was shunted aside in favour of Niall.

“Tell her it has been requisitioned for the revolution,” I tell Niall, and he snorts and taps out a message. The playlist we’ve been listening to comes to an end, and Niall rushes to start a new one. _Children of the Revolution_ begins playing, and Dev boos loudly from the backseat.

“You’re not funny,” he jeers. “Put on something new.”

The song pauses, and _Mr. Brightside_ comes on.

“I walked right into that,” Dev mutters. I can hear the sound of shifting from the backseat and I know that Dev is trying to make himself become one with the window.

“Mate, please stop moving, you’re hitting my bladder,” Snow grunts quietly.

“Crowley, I love this song,” Bunce exclaims, and Niall turns around in his seat to smile widely at her, already singing through the first chorus.

“ _But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me!_ ” Snow, Bunce, Wellbelove and Niall shout at the same time, and I bite down a grin as I glance in the rearview mirror to see Dev closing his eyes and looking murderous.

“ _Open up my eager eyes_ ,” I join in.

“ _Cuz I’m Mr. Brightside_ ,” Dev groans sadly.

I catch Snow’s eye in the mirror. He’s grinning widely.

I haven’t thanked him for backing me up on my decision to go to Wales. We’re only doing this because of him. When everyone else waffled and tried to talk me out of it, he was the one who had swallowed his food, sat up straight, and told our friends that he was going to Wales with me, and anyone who wanted to come was welcome.

Part of me thinks he’s only doing this for me, and not because of the Mage. The rebellious bits of him — the bits that were hurting and angry and ready to believe the Mage is evil — have been soothed over a bit since the Humdrum showdown. Not being shoved back into care accounted for a lot of it, as well as the excessive amount of time and attention the Mage has been lavishing on him this summer. Every Friday he shows up at the Wellbelove’s at noon on the dot and takes Snow for a long lunch somewhere nearby. I don’t know what they talk about — Snow says it’s nothing really, just going back over the (sanitised and largely fake) Humdrum story, and a lot of discussion about politics and what he should do next.

Apparently the Mage is trying to push him into working for the Coven as a curse breaker, which is one of the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, considering that Snow has none of the patience or delicacy required to break curses.

That, and the magic thing.

I look at him again in the mirror, my good mood quickly turning to worry, but he still looks happy, belting along to the song.

When he left my house after the Humdrum, scared and drained, he couldn’t feel his magic at all. And he’s still struggling. He was completely tapped out, and it’s taking it’s time coming back. He can still cast — small spells, easy things, first year things. He has better control on them now, too, and my theory is that it’s because his raw current of power isn’t getting in the way.

But it’s nothing compared to what he used to have. He couldn’t go off if he wanted to. He hasn’t been leaking magic. His magic is small, like an ember he needs to blow on, but he’s scared of stoking the flame.

He’s scared of getting his magic back fully, and scared of living without it, and I don’t know how to help him, because I think this might be the best thing to ever happen to him. But now no one knows what to do with him. No one seems to know how to treat him, now that he’s fulfilled his mission, but lost his secret weapon.

“Kelly, give me the music,” Bunce shouts from the backseat. “You’ve had it for hours.”

“Please no Led Zeppelin,” Wellbelove moans. “Or Fleetwood Mac!”

“You love Stevie,” Bunce retorts, sounding wounded.

There’s a tap on my shoulder as Snow leans up between the front seats.

“Any chance we can have a bathroom break?” he asks me quietly, still smiling.

“No,” I respond. “We’re almost there, you can hold it.”

“But Baz—”

“But nothing, I am not pulling this car over again.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but Bunce has put a new song on, and he shuts up and sits back as the chords to _I’m Gonna Be_ start up.

“Why do none of you share my taste in music?” Dev grouses, but he’s almost completely drowned out by the force of Bunce and Wellbelove’s singing.

“I don’t know this song,” Snow says, deflated.

“Hush and enjoy it,” Bunce scolds, and I glance at Niall and laugh.

“So do you know where his house is?” Niall asks.

“Nope. My plan is to seek out the dead spot and canvas the area from there.”

“Crowley, that’s going to take all day if we — _and I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more_!” Niall says, interrupting himself mid-sentence to join Bunce and Wellbelove on the chorus. Dev is singing under his breath, and Snow is humming along, gently drumming the beat into my shoulder.

Despite what we’re heading off to do... this is oddly fun.

“Oh! Basil! Look!” Bunce says, popping up beside me and pointing to a sign with local attractions. “Can we?”

“We’re not here to sight see,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.

“Oh come on, Basil. I’ve always wanted to go. It won’t kill you.”

Snow’s head pops up next to her.

“Yeah, Basil,” he says, grinning. His face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “It won’t kill you.”

I sigh, flip on my indicator, and get into the proper lane. The car goes up in cheers.

 

***

 

Bunce takes us through the musical highlights of the Spice Girls, Kylie Minogue, and The Cranberries in the time it takes us to merge off the motorway and pick our way down winding country lanes. Dev wastes his turn with the music on a pulsing Dizzie Rascal song that everyone but Wellbelove cocks up the lyrics to, and we continue steadily around narrow lanes and past green pastures and finally up a steep mountain road. We follow the muddy lane, going up and up and through a dense wood until we finally find ourselves in a narrow, fieldstone wall-lined lane leading to a small cottage.

I pull to the side of the lane and cut the engine just outside of the gate, and everyone spills out of the car.

I follow them out and stretch my back from side to side, swiveling to take in the view.

We’re on the side of the mountain, the valley stretched out below us, and it’s truly beautiful. Rolling hills and far away cottages, the picture of absolute tranquility.

Wellbelove turns to watch the sheep, while Snow tries to sneakily find a tree to piss behind, and Dev and Niall ramble over to inspect the sign on the front of the gate that reads ‘ _Bron-Yr-Aur Cottage: Private Residence_.’

I pull myself up onto the bonnet of the MG, and a moment later Bunce joins me.

“Worth the visit?” I ask. She’s got her wild purple hair pulled up into a top knot, and she has her pensive face on.

“I didn’t know it was a private residence,” she responds. “For some reason I thought it would be open to the public.” She pauses. “Some of the best Led Zeppelin songs were written in that cottage. _Over the Hills and Far Away_ is my favourite song of all time, and it was written there, and now some family is just… going about their lives and getting the kids ready for school and existing amongst that legacy.”

“ _Ramble On_ is my favourite Zeppelin song,” I offer. Bunce gives me a steady look and then scoffs.

“Of course it is. Of course it is.”

“I didn’t know you were so passionate about music,” I tease, shifting to put my elbows on my knees and look more closely at the cottage. Small, made of grey fieldstone with a bright blue door. Utterly unimpressive looking. Bunce shrugs.

“Some of us don’t need to be so outwardly sentimental about things.”

There’s a shriek from the other side of the car, and we look over to see Snow laughing as Wellbelove throws grass at him. On the wall just beyond, Niall and Dev are sat close together, their heads pressed close as Dev says something emphatically, gesturing with his hands, and Niall just watches him with a slow smile, and I find myself mimicking it.

“What can I say? I’m a sentimental bastard.”

Bunce stares at me again, and then a wide grin breaks out across her face, and, to my immense surprise, she ducks her head to knock it briefly against my shoulder. I’m not fluent in Bunce like Simon is, but I think this means we just became friends.

“Are you scared of what we might find?” Bunce asks, popping this unexpected and warm little moment of friendship.

“Vaguely,” I respond, which feels too close to the truth for comfort. “Are you?”

“Incredibly,” she responds with a sigh.

“So you believe me, then? That the Mage is up to something?”

Bunce rests her hands on the red bonnet behind her and leans back.

“I don’t know what I believe, to be honest. But something doesn’t seem right about any of this. With the Mage, and his books, and the Humdrum, and Simon….”

“What about Simon?”

Bunce glances behind us to ensure that Snow and Wellbelove are still distracted, and then leans in.

“What happened with his magic, with the Humdrum? How he gave it to it? And now he’s drained?”

“It’ll come back,” I say defensively, even though I don’t know for sure. No one does.

Bunce chews on her bottom lip and glances at Snow again.

“I don’t know if it will. What if…” she leans in even closer, and a strand of purple hair brushes my cheek. “What if what he gave the Humdrum was excess? Just some freak reserve that he happened to have. And now that it’s gone, now that he got rid of it in a controlled fashion — thanks you to, by the way — what if what he has now is just… his magic? His normal, intended magic.”

“Let’s just say you’re right, and he burnt off the excess,” I respond, lowering my voice. “There wouldn’t be anything left. Snow is Normal. He wouldn’t have intended magic.”

“If he were Normal, yes,” Bunce says. Her eyes finish the rest of the sentence for her, and I sit back heavily on my hands.

“You think he’s a real mage. You think his parents were mages.”

“I think it’s possible. No one knows where he came from.”

“But who would his parents even be?” I ask, suddenly alarmed. “Magical children don’t just go missing.”

“They do if no one knew they existed to begin with,” Bunce quips, then looks away.

“What do you know?” I hiss, leaning in and narrowing my eyes.

“Nothing,” she says quickly, her eyes wide. “Really and truly, I don’t know anything. This is pure speculation.”

“And what does Snow think of your theory?”

“He doesn’t,” Bunce says, looking guilty. “He doesn’t want to talk about the Humdrum or his magic, and I’m not pressing it.”

“I don’t think he wants it back,” I say, feeling slightly like I’m breaking his trust, even though he’s never said anything about it. And anyway, this is Bunce. He loves her more than he loves me. “And to be honest, I don’t know if I want it back either.”

Bunce looks at me, surprised.

“You should tell him that.”

“What?”

“You should tell him that,” she says again. “I think part of his refusal to think about it is his worry that if he’s not the all powerful Chosen One, no one will want him still. If he’s just Normal, or an average mage. You should let him know that doesn’t matter to you.”

“You’re revoltingly emotionally aware,” I tell her, and she sighs, nodding.

“I know. Micah is a big communicator, so I’ve gotten very used to talking about feelings. It’s awful.”

“Micah? The scary American? You’re still dating?”

Bunce scrunches up her face and grins at me.

“Scary American? And yes, I am. I was meant to go visit him in Chicago this summer, actually. But what with everything that happened…” she shrugs. “We thought it was for the best that I stay here. He’s going to come visit though for the last three weeks of summer. He’d love to see you.”

“Mutual, I’m sure,” I say dryly. “Maybe let’s keep him away from Niall.”

“I think he and Niall would get on well, actually,” Bunce says with a knowing smile that I absolutely do not like. But before I can question her about it, she hops off the car and stretches.

“Alright you lot, we best get going!” she calls, and our friends slowly begin to amble back over to the car.

 

***

 

Having agreed that today is largely shot, we head to Machynlleth proper to seek out food and lodging. It’s a pretty little town, tucked neatly into the green countryside of the Dyfi Valley. Garlands and bunting drape the streets and tourists and locals wander across the grey sandstone. Bunce and Wellbelove set off to find us a place to sleep while the rest of us set out in search of food, and within the hour we find ourselves sitting in the square, eating fish n’ chips and watching the sun set behind the large clocktower that sits proudly in the middle of the square.

Snow is sitting next to me, his knee brushing my thigh as he leans forward to feed his chips to the gaggle of pigeons that have begun to stalk us. He smiles widely at the largest of the lot and holds out a chip, and the bird snaps it out of his hand so fast that he recoils, shaking his fingers.

“Mangy fuck,” he mumbles, and I swell with an overwhelming tide of warmth and love for this ridiculous idiot.

Maybe I wasn’t lying to Bunce. Maybe I am a sentimental bastard.

It’s dark by the time we wander into the bed and breakfast that the girls arranged for us, and we stand in the hallway awkwardly before parting ways.

“Remember, meet up at 7,” I say, and Dev nods.

“Right, right, you’ve said that, mum.”

“That will leave time for breakfast, right?” Snow asks, and Niall snorts loudly.

“Dev won’t let us on the road if he doesn’t eat first,” he says, and Dev and Snow share a look of mutual respect.

“Well, night then,” I say, shifting the weight of my rucksack and letting myself into the room behind me. Snow follows, kicks off his trainers, drops his rucksack, and then looks around.

“Just one bed,” he says.

“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Looks like we’ll have to share.”

He mutters something rude before wandering off toward the en suite.

By the time he’s out of the shower, pink skinned and smelling like old lady lavender, I’m in bed and half asleep. I’ve been trying to focus on my book and stay awake so that we can talk, but I’m fading. Today was exhausting, and inexplicably extremely enjoyable, and the combination of the warmth filling my chest from a day with my friends and the icy dread creeping up from my stomach about what we’re doing tomorrow has my body shutting down as a defence mechanism.

I’ve set my mobile on the bedside table and turned on Spotify to play quietly while I read, and Snow smiles as Lou Reed comes on. _Perfect Day_. I may have done it on purpose.

“That was nice of you to take the detour for Pen,” Snow yawns as he digs in his rucksack for clean clothes. “She’s a Zeppelin nut.”

“Well, let’s not hold that against her,” I say, watching with interest as he attempts to pull on his pants while still wearing his towel around his waist. It’s a wonderfully uncoordinated effort, and I give him a zero out of ten for execution. Pants on, he drops the towel and turns around to crawl onto the bed, his hair still wet.

“Aren’t you even going to put on a shirt?” I snap. He shakes his head and a cold droplet of water hits my cheek.

“It’s hot out, no need,” he mutters, pulling the blankets up around him and sighing as he nestles down into the hideously uncomfortable bed. His face goes directly into my neck and his arm snakes up around my waist to pull me in, his fingers resting lightly on my hip.

My playlist has started on _Pictures of You_ , and I vaguely think that I should turn it off. Snow doesn’t like The Cure. But my mobile is far away, and Snow is pressed tightly against me, and I’m having difficulty breathing because of this whole situation.

“You’re a savage,” I snap, trying to will my blush down. “Why can’t you wear normal pyjamas like the rest of us?”

His fingers tighten on my hips and he shuffles in closer, until he’s pressed entirely against my back from shoulder to ankle, and I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me. His fingers play with the hem of my shirt and then slowly skate under it. Then they toy with the band of my pyjama pants, hooking under them for a moment, and all the breath leaves my body, because I cannot believe what’s actually happening.

We’ve made out. We’ve fumbled around a bit, but nothing too serious. There were a handful of blissfully steamy make out sessions in our room that got slightly too carried away and ended with us red faced and embarrassed, but what Snow is doing right now is deliberate, calculated, and intent.

“Aren’t you tired?” I ask him, my voice rough.

“Mhhm,” he mumbles against my neck, his warm breath huffing across my skin. I move back against him slightly, and his breath huffs out again.

“Then why aren’t you sleeping?”

His hips come forward slightly and I can feel him pressing against me and my heart thuds through my chest. His fingers dip below my waistband again and then suddenly tug down. My breath stutters.

“Today was really nice,” he says, his voice sleepy and rough and he presses a kiss to my neck. “I don’t want it to end yet.”

I break.

I flip around quickly, bringing my arms up on either side of him and kiss him roughly, messily. A burst of surprised laughter slips out of him and he wraps his arms around me and kisses back, the sides of our faces mashed into the itchy floral pillowcase, our legs tangled together, our hands creeping across each other’s bodies.

“I love the way you smell,” he mumbles when I push him to his back and kiss at his neck, targeting the moles he has there. My hair is fanned out all over his face.

“You smell like an old lady,” I retort, kissing down his collar bone, and he laughs again, a delighted, high pitched giggle of a thing that sends jolts down my spine. It’s only made worse when he reaches up to pull my shirt off over my head and my hair gets entirely displaced, sticking out at messy angles and tangling in front of my eyes, and he dissolves into another burst of laughter when he sees it.

It continues like that. Snow’s messy laughter spilling over and my annoyed huffs mixing with the horrifically loud sounds of our increasingly laboured breathing. I have no idea what I’m doing. He doesn’t either, clearly, but we move against each other desperately and figure it out. Snow laughs through the whole thing, his cheeks pushing up and crinkling his blue eyes, and I stay silent, watching him intently, running my hands through his curls and gripping his upper arms and feeling close to fucking bursting with the reality of my life.

I didn’t expect this to happen. I’ve kind of been slightly terrified of this happening, actually, what with my emotional walls and my fear of hurting him. Ever since the Humdrum, when I almost broke down, I’ve been terrified of hurting him. Terrified that I can’t control myself. Terrified that he’ll be taken away, that he’ll walk away, just like he did after the Humdrum. Terrified that I’ll have to watch him go.

But Snow and his laughter have burst through my fucking walls. I should have known he would. I don’t think I can keep anything from him, or deny him of anything. He trusts me implicitly, and I trust him, and it’s he and I. There’s nothing between us now. We’re in everything together.

When Snow gave me his magic and opened himself up to me and let me draw on his reserves, I thought that I couldn’t love him more than that; that I could never be that close to another person ever again. But lying on the world’s lumpiest bed in a musty bed and breakfast in Wales, surrounded by the smell of lavender and dust, having ridiculous, fumbling, teenage sex with Simon Snow, I realise that this is it. The holy fire of his magic is nothing compared to the dizzy warmth of his laughing embrace.

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel his magic flow through me again, but I know I can have this, whenever I want, for as long as he’ll have me.

The insanity of this rips a bubbling, amazed laugh from me, and Snow leans down to cut it off with a sloppy, gasping kiss.

When the clocktower in the square chimes midnight, he’s snoring and I’m barely moving, my mind still reeling about what just happened and what’s to come. He shifts in his sleep, curling in on himself and I tighten my grip around his waist and pull him closer to me. Wrapping my body around him as best as I can, I imagine myself as the layer of protection between him and the rest of the world.

The final chime echoes through town and I press a small kiss underneath his ear.

“Happy birthday, love.”

 

***

 

When we return to the car the next morning, the happy, carefree mood is gone.

Snow, riding shotgun, is doing his level best to be cheery. He’s on music, and he’s doing a good job, but no one feels like singing, and I can tell the edges of his smile are fake. A real one shines through when I take my left hand off the gear shift and place it on his thigh, but it only lasts a minute.

I try to focus on last night in order to push back the anxiety that’s roiling inside me as we grow closer and closer to the dead spot, but not even the memory of Snow’s lips on my skin is enough to calm me. There’s nothing to be done for it now; we must simply keep calm and carry on.

We feel the dead spot immediately. Bunce sucks in a deep breath and Dev grunts in surprise. Niall and Wellbelove shift uncomfortably, and Snow goes stiff as a board.

“Bunce, how large is this spot?” I ask, my tone tense.

“Not very large. Ten acres, maybe.”

I nod and stay on the road we’re on. There can’t be very many cottages down this way; we should find it sooner or later.

“I feel sick,” Bunce whispers.

“I’m with Bunce, this feels awful,” Dev mutters.

“Just close your eyes and sit back,” Niall says gently.

“There,” Snow barks, pointing down a narrow track I barely saw. It’s not even a road, just a path, but there are tyre tracks and it’s worn down.

I pull the car over and cut the engine.

“The MG can’t handle that terrain,” I explain, getting out of the car. “We have to walk.”

Five queasy faces nod back at me.

“If you don’t think you can handle it, you can take the car and leave the dead spot,” I say quietly. “I can call and have you pick me up when I’m done.”

“I’m going with you,” Snow says, crossing the car to squeeze my hand. “You guys can go though.”

“No, we’re coming,” Dev says, and the rest of our friends nod.

“Right then,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Onward to victory.”

The track isn’t very long; a kilometre at best, and it soon winds around the dense crop of trees to reveal a snug little cottage at the base of the hill. The stone has been whitewashed, the door is a cheery green, and there’s a grown over garden out front, just next to the gravelled driveway. Set against the side of the house is an empty chicken coop.

It’s cute. It’s quaint and homey and painfully normal, and nothing at all what I expected the Mage’s house to look like. It’s nice, but it doesn’t exactly look like property one would buy. It’s more like a grandparent’s house that gets passed along.

“This is downright charming,” Dev mutters, his voice too loud in the silent valley.

The house is deserted; the curtains are drawn, the chimney is unlit, the driveway is empty, but I keep glancing around like a horde of Mage’s Men are going to pop out at any moment. The anxiety gets worse as we get to the door.

“How are we going to open it?” Bunce whispers. “We can’t use magic.”

Snow stares at the door for a moment, and then leans over and gently plucks two hairpins from Bunce’s hair. Her curls fall in her eyes and she watches as he straightens them out, then squats down in front of the old brass lock and sets to work.

Between this and his pickpocketing back in Lancashire, Snow is full of surprises.

After what feels like a century, there’s a sharp “click” and Snow exhales, turns the doorknob, and swings the door open with a creak.

“After you,” he grunts, and I step over the threshold.

The inside smells of dust and old wood and stale air, and we survey the small kitchen. Snug. White curtains on the windows, gas hob set up next to a black wood stove. A small table tucked into the corner, balanced on uneven, knobbly pine floors. Dishes still stacked neatly in the washing rack by the sink.

The den is the same. A leather sofa, a floral armchair. Shelves of books — but Normal ones. Nothing magical. A very dusty looking television from the nineties.

“Search down here. I’m going upstairs,” I whisper, pointing toward the solid staircase that leads up to the second level. Bunce and Wellbelove break off and follow me, while Snow and Niall begin pulling books off the shelves downstairs, and Dev pokes around the hall cupboard.

The first door is a bedroom. Sparse. Green bedclothes, side table, vanity pushed against the window. Floral curtains. A black and white photo of a smiling older couple, standing in front of this cottage.

The next room is the study, and that’s where we find it.

The room is stacked floor to ceiling with books and parchment. The shelves are overflowing and bending with the weight, more books are stacked on the floor, and even more crates are piled up so high that the door won’t open fully. We fall on the books immediately.

“The book we stole from the selkies is here,” Bunce whispers, toying with it. Everything from that crate is here, actually.”

I cross the room quickly to where she’s standing and my eyes rove over the books. I see what I’m looking for immediately; four books, familiar spines, in perfect condition. My mother’s books. The ones he confiscated from me and I never got back.

I pick up the books carefully and cradle them under my arms. They’ll be coming home with me.

“Basil, these books...” Bunce starts, peering up over a cracked leather tome. “Some of these books are forbidden. There’s banned words, and blood rites, and a bunch of texts about power binding. And—” she gestures at the far wall, looking overwhelmed. “Those are all about prophecies. One prophecy.”

“Uhm,” Wellbelove says quietly from the corner. She’s looking at something small that she’s just pulled out of a desk. “Do you know… did the Mage have a wife?”

“A wife?” I echo, screwing my face up. “No, I’m fairly certain he didn’t. Why?”

“Then who is this?”

Wellbelove holds up the item in her hand, and Bunce and I walk closer to inspect it. It’s a photo printed on regular photo paper. A red faced, freckled blonde woman smiles up at us out of it, her hair pulled in a messy, sweaty bun at the top of her head. She’s standing in front of the cottage, next to the empty chicken coop, and she’s wearing a men’s rugby jersey.

The jersey is stretched almost to its limit over her round, pregnant belly.

“The date stamp says this was June of 1997,” Bunce whispers.

“She’s almost full term,” I agree.

“Guys…” Wellbelove says, her voice wobbling. “Guys, doesn’t she kind of look like—” There’s a crash downstairs and a string of curses, and then Snow’s voice floating up the stairs.

“Baz? Penny? You need to see this.”

Wellbelove folds the photo and shoves it into her pocket as the three of us go racing out of the room and clambering down the stairs. Dev and Snow are in the living room, surrounded by books. The bookshelf they had been investigating is gone, and instead has spun in on itself to reveal a narrow door, leading to a hidden room.

“Well done, you,” I say, striding forward, and then I freeze when I see what’s in the room beyond.

It’s a workshop. Unsanded wooden benches line the walls and the floor is rough cement. There are strange, dark stains seeped into the floor, and handwritten notes are scribbled and pinned up on the walls.

In the centre of the room are two large terrariums. One reveals a large, jagged spherical shell — no, egg. It was an egg once, I think. It’s a mud brown and roughly the size of a pug, with small edges of it broken off. I can’t see what’s in the terrarium next to it, however, because Niall is standing in front of it, staring down.

“Niall,” I say, going to him. Snow follows me into the room, and everyone else looks on from the doorway. “Niall, what is it?”

Niall turns, his green eyes wide and sad, and reveals the small, dried, decomposing form of a baby dragon.

It’s not freshly dead. It’s been dead for a long time — at least seven years, if I had to hazard a guess. Or maybe, considering the jagged egg next to it, it was never born to begin with.

The dragon is curled in on itself, just like those diagrams of human foetuses. There’s a black and white sonogramme of my future baby brother hanging on Malcolm and Daphne’s fridge right now that looks just like this; curled up, tucked in, asleep.

Small pieces of its tail have been carefully clipped away, and large sections of scales on its stomach are missing. It’s preserved, put on display in a clinical, impersonal manner, like a science experiment. Behind the terrarium, several vials of thick, black liquid are perched.

Prenatal dragon blood.

“This is from first year, isn’t it?” Niall breathes. I nod. I’m fairly sure it is. “This is the dragon egg he stole. This is why that dragon came to Watford, why Snow blew it up, why I—”

He trails off and leans over the terrarium.

“It’s so small.”

His hand comes out to touch it before I have time to shout.

“Don’t touch it!” But he’s already made contact, and gone rigid.

“What’s wrong?” Snow asks, barreling past me to pull Niall away from the dragon. Niall isn’t moving.

“Unborn dragons have natural protective magic,” I explain quickly, watching as my best friend’s face transforms into a mask of horror. “If you touch them without permission, it sends you into a temporary stasis, where you have to relive the worst moment of your life.”

Behind us, Welbelove’s breath catches.

“But we’re in a dead spot. There’s no magic,” Dev says roughly, his voice tinged with panic. He’s pushed past the girls to get to Niall’s side.

“Dragon magic isn’t normal, it’s not magic like we think of it,” Bunce whispers. “It might not react to the dead zone the same way. He could — The Mage could potentially have used it. Like a magical generator.”

All of a sudden Niall snaps out of his spell with a loud gasp, and then he slowly backs out of the workshop, his face horrified. He’s shaking. Everyone follows him back into the living room. One of Dev’s hands comes up to firmly grasp Niall’s arm, and he pulls him closer.

“Mate, it’s okay. Hey, look at me. It’s okay.”

Niall crumbles, shoving his face down into Dev’s hair and bringing his arms up as he’s wracked with small sobs. He’s so much taller than Dev that he nearly folds into himself to do it. Dev’s dark eyes are wide and scared and confused, and he returns the embrace slowly. His arms are almost slack though, and he holds Niall as loosely as possible.

“Come on, we need to get out of here,” he says quietly as we all look on.

Realising that everyone is just standing in the living room watching Niall cry, Dev slowly turns them, so that his body blocks Niall mostly from view and glances up to glare at us. He looks positively murderous as he keeps talking softly into Niall’s ear.

“You’ll feel better away from here. Please come with me?”

Niall nods mutely, and Dev turns to look at me.

“Go,” I say. “We’ll be there in a moment. Wellbelove, Bunce, you go too.”

It’s a testament to the moment that they don’t argue.

Niall pulls himself off Dev and clears his throat, his face red and puffy, and then heads out the door on shaky legs, not looking at anyone. Dev follows. Bunce reaches out to pat Niall’s arm when they pass, but Dev blocks it and nearly growls at her.

“Are they a thing?” Snow whispers to me. A startled, rattled laugh escapes me. I could kiss him right now for focusing on the single most unimportant detail.

“Somehow, no,” I respond, and Snow makes a noise.

“Wonder how long it’ll take Niall to see that Dev is gagging for him.”

“What? No. It’s the opposite.”

“Niall?” Snow asks, scrunching his face in disbelief. “No, it’s clearly Dev. I can’t tell how Niall feels. He really holds himself off, but Dev is stupidly easy to read.”

Oh my god.

It’s the worst and most insane conversation to be having right now, and it’s absolutely what needed, because if Snow weren’t distracting me with teenage gossip, I’d probably be vomiting. I think he’s doing it on purpose as well; he has his body between me and the door, so I can’t see what’s inside.

He has his face on, the face that says he’s not thinking about it. We’re not talking about it. It’s the face from Lancashire, the face that means Simon is now running on basic survival, and he’ll handle the rest later.

I can do that too.

“So…” I say slowly, gesturing behind him. “Do we leave it or bury it?”

Snow’s face is a grim line of determination.

“Bury it.”

 

***

 

Snow and I buried the baby dragon in a small clearing behind the house. We picked a spot next to a small pile of rocks that looked deliberately placed, and I shuddered to think of what else the Mage has buried in his back garden.

We wrapped the dragon up in my shirt and Snow carried it carefully outside, putting it and the egg in the ground in silence. He stared at the vials of dragon blood for a long moment before he pulled the cork out and brought it up to his nose and sniffed. His face was hard to read, but recognition flashed there, and I remembered him telling me about the awful black liquid the Mage had him drink last year — the liquid that had made him feverish and ill and plagued him with nightmares.

We buried those as well.

By the time we finished, my white undershirt was sticking to me in the heat, but we went back inside and sealed up the workshop and replaced the books and left the house just as we found it — sans my mother’s books and the remains of a murdered magical beast.

He didn’t speak as we climbed back up the hill to get back to the MG where all our friends were, just sat down in the front seat and took my phone and put on music. No one made any noise until we left the dead spot, when Bunce let out a small sob and Niall released a shaky sigh. The rest of the trip home was almost deafening in its silence

Just outside of London I stop at a Costa petrol station, and everyone flees the car. Everyone except Snow, who stays in his seat and blinks up at me as I cross the car to unscrew the lid to the tank.

“Is it illegal to kill dragons?”

“No,” I whisper. His face darkens.

“Did you find anything upstairs?”

My mind goes directly to the photo in Wellbelove’s pocket, the photo that I was desperate to talk to him about. The photo that has so, so many implications.

“Nothing illegal,” I respond, because I can’t lie to him. Not now. Not after all of this. Not on his birthday.

“And nothing about your mum?”

A pain shoots through me, and I shake my head.

“Just the books he took from me.”

“So we have nothing.”

He’s not looking at me, just staring straight ahead at the petrol pumps.

“We know he had the dragon. And was experimenting. And he had books on banned words and power binding and — and on your prophecy.”

“That seems about normal,” he responds. “He was researching the prophecy. He was trying to find a way to fix my power. All of that can be explained.”

He turns away from me and kicks at the MG’s red passenger door so suddenly that I flinch. The whole car shakes with the impact, and he lets out a loud yell of frustration that startles the man at the pump next to us.

“So we have nothing!” he shouts, pulling at his curls. “All of that is perfectly fucking legal, and we have nothing!” He quiets, his pained eyes boring down on me, and I stand rooted to the spot, aching for him but unable to think of anything to say or do. “How could he do that? How could he — he’s not …. I never thought he…”

He closes his eyes and pulls at his hair again, and the expression he gives me is so fractured that I almost drop the petrol hose and risk sending this whole place up in flames. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but find humour in how backwards everything is. I was the one who broke down after we killed the Humdrum. Now he’s the one breaking down when we take on the Mage.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry he’s not who you thought he was.”

I do mean it. Staggeringly, I do mean it.

“I’m going to talk to the Wellbeloves. And the Bunces. And your dad. And when we get back to school we’re going to…” he shakes his head and grunts in frustration, and I pray he doesn’t kick the car again. “We’ll do something.”

The petrol pump cuts off with a loud clang, and I replace the hose quickly and then cross the car to him.

“Alright, love,” I nod. “We’ll do something.” A sickening thought occurs to me, and I take a breath. “You two have lunches. Can you… will you be able to handle it?”

He shakes his head.

“He said we’d talk more in the school year, once my magic comes back.” His eyes flick toward the ground. “If it doesn’t come back, he’ll… I don’t think he’ll want anything to do with me, not anymore.”

That’s a good thing, in my opinion, but that’s not the point here. The point is that even after everything, even after the anger and the hurt, Snow is still scared of the Mage abandoning him.

“I will,” I blurt out, and his eyes snap up. “He may walk away from you, but I won’t. If the magic doesn’t come back, I don’t care. You’re Simon.”

“I’m the Chosen One,” he says, and I shake my head.

“You are Simon fucking Snow, pain in my ass, scourge of Watford, love of my life. If we take down the Mage, it’s Simon Snow who’s doing it. Not the Chosen One. Got it?”

He looks up at me and his cheeks heat, and he nods.

“Got it,” he mumbles, and then kicks at my ankle with his dirty trainer.

“He’ll know we’ve been there,” he says quickly, like the thought has just occurred to him. “We shouldn’t have moved things. The books. He’ll come for you—”

I shake my head.

“We may not have found proof of crimes, but I think we saw enough sketchy shit that he won’t call me out over some missing books.”

“Just be careful, yeah?” he asks, then grins. “I like having you around.”

I look to the front of the Costa, where our friends are coming back toward us carrying coffee and snacks.

“I like being here.”

 

***

 

The summer goes by in a blur.

I see my friends regularly, and Niall stays with me for a few weeks before going on holiday to Italy with the Grimms. Bunce and Snow and Wellbelove wander in and out of Fiona’s and my house. Micah the scary American makes a brief appearance, and I flitter around Niall like a nervous mother hen, which proves completely unnecessary because Niall and Micah end up making the food run together and come back grinning, to my immense confusion.

It’s odd, how easily this strange gaggle of people slots into my life, and Fiona — bless her — doesn’t question it. A section of our unused dining room table has become a depository for all of Bunce’s research and notes, and Fiona doesn’t even snoop.

The problem is, we don’t even know what exactly we’re researching. We just know that something is afoot. We have a large list tacked up to the wall of what we know: the Mage has done something involving power binding and blood rites and dragon blood. He’s obsessed with the Chosen One prophecy. He sent vampires to Watford. He killed my mum. He blamed it on the Humdrum. Snow and I defeated the Humdrum.

And then we’re back to the start.

There’s also the photo. Bunce and I have been dancing around it, neither of us saying what we think, but I know we’re on the same page. Too many things are falling into place. Too many things start to make sense. The woman in the photo. Snow’s missing parents. The Mage’s obsession.

I’m hovering around the edges of the answer, refusing to even fully say it in my head because it seems too improbable, too unfortunate, too upsetting to consider. If I don’t even think it, then it can’t be true. If I don’t even think it, then it won’t open the other doors in my mind, the ones whispering about blood rites and power binding and dragon blood and a pregnant woman no one knows. If I don’t even think it, I don’t have to consider that perhaps the Mage has wronged Simon far, far more than he wronged me.

Neither of us have said anything to Simon, though. I want it to come from me, but I won’t do it with Bunce and Wellbelove around, and they’re almost always around.

Even though I’ve seen Snow all summer, I’m sick to the eye teeth with missing him. I wish I could just pull him into our own world and wrap my arms around him and go back to that small bubble of warmth we had in that awful bed in Wales, before we went to the cottage and everything crumbled.

But he has too much on his mind, and we haven’t had any opportunities to be alone. Fiona, despite being pre-warned, was massively hacked off that I took her car, and so my transportation methods have been drastically reduced.

“I can’t wait to be back at school,” I mutter to him a week before the end of hols. We’re on my sofa, watching TV and trying to ignore Fiona’s escalating, one-sided fight against Merlin.

“I don’t know,” Snow says, shrugging. “It’s going to be weird. Being there, pretending it’s fine. He’s fine. I mean,” he lets out a huff of air. “What am I even going to do with my time without the Humdrum trying to kill me?”

There’s unspoken anxiety there about his magic. The booming, cracking power hasn’t returned, and though he’s getting better at controlling the smaller supply he has, he’s about eight years late in mastering the basics.

“I can think of things for us to do,” I whisper under my breath, trying to distract him from this thought spiral.

Snow’s face flares into a gorgeous pink, and I shift closer to him. He flashes a nervous look at Wellbelove, who is sitting across from us, glued to her phone. She hasn’t noticed anything, but I know Snow is still embarrassed. We’re never affectionate in any way around other people but I haven’t been alone with him since Wales and I’m about to go spare.

“ _Charles Hollow!_ ” comes Merlin’s growling voice from the kitchen.

“No! No! I told you that you cannot have that carrot, you little shit!”

“ _Charles Hollow!_ ”

“We should give him back, shouldn’t we?” Snow mumbles, leaning in to press his forehead to my shoulder as he laughs silently. Even this small touch feels like a huge step. Snow hates PDA just as much as I do.

“We could keep him,” I offer. “Just in case I get hungry.”

Snow snorts and Wellbelove looks up from her phone.

“Penny is blowing up my phone about a book. I told her to just text Baz directly, but she doesn’t have his phone number,” she says, flicking a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Why am I the receptionist for this entire friend group?”

“It’s because you’ve got the gams for it, doll,” I deadpan, and Wellbelove glares.

“Sexist,” she snaps, grabbing her bag and standing up, and then poking Snow with her foot. “Sexist, gross men, both of you. Come on Simon, we need to leave now to be home for dinner. Baz, I gave Penny your number.”

“I can tell,” I respond, feeling my phone explode in my pocket. I stand up as well and watch Snow stretch. I really, really cannot wait to get back to our room where we can bicker and pick on each other in private. This is the last time I’ll see him before school, and a panicked, pinched part of me feels uncomfortable letting him out of my sight for the week, like if I don’t have eyes on him he’ll be whisked away before we get to school.

Maybe all the stress of the last half decade has left me with more issues than I thought.

“Baz, I’ll see you at the Club for the shower, right? Simon is going back to school that morning with Penny, and I thought you and I could go back together after the shower?” Wellbelove asks as I walk them out. I nod, and Snow frowns.

“Why can’t I go? I don’t get it.”

“It’s a baby shower for Daphne,” I tell him for the eighth time. “It’s going to be a bunch of women. No men.”

“So why are you going?” he asks. I stare at him.

“Because I am the big _brother_ ,” I respond, horrified. Of course I’ll be there. I’ve a new suit and everything. Mordelia, Ophelia, Acantha and I are all wearing green. “I’m family, of course I’ll be there.”

“So why is Ags going? I thought your mums were fighting.”

“Oh, they made up,” Wellbelove says, flitting her hand. “Baz defeated the Humdrum. It would be social suicide for Mum to keep fighting with Daphne, especially not if she wants the Grimms at the Christmas party this year.”

“You know, technically I’m the one who defeated it,” Snow grouches. Wellbelove pats him on the head.

“You’re special too Simon,” she deadpans. “Now come on we really have to go.”

She heads out the door and Snow lingers for a moment and grins shyly up at me. I love it when he gets like this. It’s like all his brash confidence fades the moment he’s left alone to kiss me.

“See you at school,” he says, and I nod, enjoying his blush. “Don’t forget Merlin. And erm, that jumper I left here. And your bluetooth player. Oh, also—”

“Snow, just kiss me and go, before you choke on your rambling.”

“Right,” he says, nonplussed, and leans up and kisses me quickly. I smile against his mouth, my hands still in my trouser pockets, and return the kiss.

“See you at school,” I whisper, and he smiles back — a wide, real smile, one I’ve seen rarely this summer, and then he leaves. I hate seeing him walk out of that door.

Maybe I’ve become too attached to Snow.

My phone buzzes again as the door closes, and I pull out my phone to see a staggering number of messages from Bunce.

 

 **PB:** Pitch, this is Bunce.

 **PB:** Penelope Bunce. Not my brother.

 **PB:** this is not a weed hookup

 **PB:** anyway I was looking up some of the books we saw at the cottage. My mum didn’t have any of them in her family library but i’m at my grandfather’s right now and he has this locked chest of books

 **PB:** they’re the books that my family uses for all our marriage bonding rites and child bonding rites and such

 **PB:** my parents are really into marriage rites. they’re bound in several different dimensions

 **PB:** anyway

 **PB:** i broke into it and he had some of the same books that the Mage has and I looked through the ones whose titles I recognised

 **PB:** and a lot of them were about conception rites

 **PB:** i don’t know what to think about it, but he had a lot of those books, and with the photo…

 **PB:** well, i think we need to talk to Simon when we get back to school

 

I stare at my mobile and clench my hand around it, breathing deep, before I reply.

 

 **BP:** I think you’re right.

 **BP:** We’ll discuss this later.

 **BP:** I’ll see you at school.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SONG REFERENCED IN THIS CHAPTER:
> 
> Hey Jude - The Beatles
> 
> Heroes - David Bowie
> 
> If You Love Somebody Set Them On Fire - The Dead Milkmen
> 
> Children of The Revolution - T. Rex
> 
> Mr. Brightside - The Killers
> 
> I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) - The Proclaimers
> 
> Over The Hills and Far Away - Led Zeppelin
> 
> Ramble On - Led Zeppelin
> 
> Perfect Day - Lou Reed
> 
> Pictures of You - The Cure


	14. Don't Stop Me Now | PART 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR EIGHT, PART 1: Showdowns, meltdowns, eight hours of questioning and Sid Vicious. Grand theft auto, police procedurals and Simon Snow's DILFy doppelgänger. Ebb Petty Is Our Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > Want to listen along? Check out Baz's [ **Rebel Rebel**](https://open.spotify.com/user/d1obrofve9cxtkckphog9t803/playlist/4ALxgXQ3SJ30QgpKQSbkLV?si=fOEdc3JbQPiPXiHtrOop1Q) playlist on Spotify.
>> 
>> **Chapter Title:** [Don't Stop Me Now -- Queen](https://open.spotify.com/track/7hQJA50XrCWABAu5v6QZ4i?si=ucBM_0fZT86GOUhE4rZcSQ)
>> 
>> See the end of the work for a complete list of all songs mentioned in this chapter.
>> 
>> **Authors Note:**  Hello friends! We have arrived. It's been an unbelievable journey and I cannot say enough to thank all my readers for the wonderful comments you have left me during this journey. It's been a wild ride, but now it's over. Fucking weird. This chapter has been split into two parts for length. So Happy Christmas! Enjoy the double update.
>> 
>> A huge thank you to everyone who has been involved in this. The NanoWriBros, bread-of-god-is-bread, Great-Merlins-Beard, carryonsimoncarryonbaz, and everyone who has been a beta reader or talked to me about music or generally hyped me up and kept me going.
>> 
>> Thanks so much for reading along and being so wonderful. I'm in awe of you all every day. To follow along with my future work, feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr over at [@Basic-Banshee](https://basic-banshee.tumblr.com/). xx - Ban
>> 
>>  

“I’m never having children.”

Wellbelove receives the smallest of smiles from me as we pick up the last of the presents and make our way out of the club’s formal dinner room.

“But you get gifts,” I say, watching her struggle with a large lavender present. She’s in ridiculously high heels and she keeps almost losing her balance. Pausing for a moment, I place my hand on the small of her back to balance her.

“But you have to put up with so many people first to get them,” she huffs in a whisper before smiling politely as one of Daphne’s friends passes us on the stairwell and doesn’t bother to help.

“Crowley why did we agree to load the gifts into the car?”

“Because it was that or stay to watch Fiona and Lady Salisbury get even more drunk.”

“How does one woman eat that much cake?” Wellbelove muses. “She’s like 70. She just doesn’t stop eating.”

“I feel for her son,” I say, holding open the door. “Imagine having to ferry around your mum to all those society events. Imagine having a woman that gregarious as a mother. She’s be exhausting. I’d die of socialness.”

“You only feel for him because you think he’s fit,” Wellbelove snaps. She’s panting a bit. I guess all those lacrosse games and horse events didn’t prepare her for the trying world of baby-gift hauling. “He looks like a 40 year old Simon, you were practically drooling.”

“There’s nothing wrong with appreciating a man who ages well,” I sniff, offended and refusing to admit she is one hundred per cent correct.

If Simon manages to make it to the other side of forty without dying in some traumatic and noble way, I think he’d look like that man. Oliver Salisbury. He was kind of impossible to miss, as the only other man at the baby shower. Bronze hair, curled, pushed to the side. Small lines around the edge of his eyes that look like they’ve been worn in by smiling. He spent the day  leaning casually, confidently against a wall just behind his mum, fully engrossed in a conversation with Terra Crentin, which is almost impossible as Terra Crentin is sixty and the most boring woman on the planet.

His nose was wrong, though. It’s never been broken, and it’s too narrow. It curves up to a point, a far too dainty gesture to be found on Snow’s face.

And he’s missing some moles. He has the freckles — dusted across his forehead, but only one mole, on his neck, another under his eye. He needs far more to match Snow’s solar system.

When he laughed at something Terra said or bent down to speak to his mum, I could see his teeth when he smiled, all wide and stretched, just like Snow. His teeth are perfect, uniform and white and lined up in a row. Not at all like Snow. And his laugh is contained. It’s loud and barking, but it stops quickly. Not like Snow. When he laughs, it’s a full show.

Oliver Salisbury is like a sanitised version of Simon; an alternate reality Simon who was coddled and had his rough edges soothed.

I prefer my version of Snow.

So maybe I’m missing him, just a bit. Maybe I spent the whole day thinking about him. Sue me.

“What do you say we don’t say our goodbyes and just leave for school as soon as we’ve loaded this last round into the Jag?” I ask, switching the subject away from Snow’s DILFy doppelgänger.

I’m exhausted and hungry and eager to be out of this suit, even if I do look incredible in it.

“Honestly?” Wellbelove asks, squinting into the sun of the parking lot. Where’s the valet? I’m going to make him just go get the car for me. “Let’s do it. I can’t handle smiling at one more woman in a pastel dress. They all think I’m dating you, did you know? It’s all ‘so sorry about Simon, darling, but that Mr. Pitch is so handsome!’ It’s getting obnoxious.”

“I can’t help that old women love me. It’s a phenomenon. Old ladies adore gay men,” I reply. Wellbelove throws her hair over her shoulder and goes to respond, but something over my shoulder catches her attention.

“Baz—” she starts, her brown eyes wide, and then suddenly the world explodes in a starburst of pain and lights.

Wellbelove screams as I fall to my knees, and I look up to see her with her wand out, her hand shaking.

“ ** _Hands in the air!_** ” she shouts. It’s a weak spell. As I scramble to push myself up, I wonder why she chose it. It’s deliberate and crassly precise. But then again, I don’t know Wellbelove’s style. I never really see her cast.

As another burst of pain flares in my side, my judgemental thoughts slide.

“Baz!” Wellbelove shouts. “Behind you!”

I push myself to my feet and turn just in time to see a large club swinging toward me.

My body slides into predatory mode and I duck and lash out without thinking, tackling the walking pile of rocks that’s trying to attack me. It falls to the ground with a loud, aching grunt, and I scramble off of it. There’s two other rock piles  — one has its arm stumps in the air, but is kicking as much as it can, and another one is advancing on Wellbelove.

“ ** _Freeze, dirtbag!_** ” she casts, and the walking mountain stalls in place. Never again will I mock Wellbelove for her obsession with police procedurals. If she weren’t here, the rocks would have caught me completely unaware.

I dash forward and tackle the creature — it’s a numpty, I can see now. They’re wearing scarves and are covered in mouldy newspapers — and take it down, then round on the other one.

“ ** _Looks like you’re in a bind!_** ” I snarl, and ropes come out to wrap around the struggling creature. Not my favourite spell, but it appears we’ve stumbled onto a theme, so why break it now. Panting, I turn to Wellbelove.

“Are you alright?”

“You’re bleeding,” she responds, staring at my head. She’s breathing hard and shaking slightly. I hold my hand to my hair and my palm comes away red. Fucking numpties.

“I’m fine,” I say, leaning down to the closest creature. I grab it’s head and pull it back so I can look at it directly. It’s skin grates against my hand and it feels coarse and sweaty, like wet, clumping clay.

“Why are you here? Why did you attack me?”

It doesn’t make sense. Numpties live in dark areas under bridges, crowded around burning rubbish bins. They don’t loitre in the parking lot of exclusive Mage Clubs.

The numpty grunts something and I pull its neck up more.

“Why are you here?” I repeat. The words slur a bit, because my fangs have come out — it’s a result of being attacked, like a fight or flight response — and I know this is wildly dangerous, to have them on display in the middle of the parking lot. But no one is here, and my head fucking hurts, and I want some answers.

“Told…” the numpty begins. It sounds like every word hurts it. “Told… take the … blood eater… keep… away….”

I stare up at Wellbelove. She has a horrified expression on her face.

“You were told to kidnap me?”

The numpty grunts again and goes silent. Taking a breath, I light a fire in my palm and hold it up to the rocky creature. It smells like dirt and decay and mould.

“I’ll give you the fire if you tell me who sent you and why.”

“Promised…. Warmth…” the numpty says, straining its body to get near the heat. The other numpties on the ground have seen it as well, and are wriggling, trying to make their way toward me. Wellbelove shrieks as one of them rolls over her shoe, and she jumps away.

“Who promised warmth?”

“The… older one. The… green one.”

“The green one? The green what?” Wellbelove asks. She looks torn between fleeing in fear and screaming in fury.

“The green mage,” I say, looking up to meet her eyes. A wave of cold rage has swept through me. “The Mage.”

“The Mage sent _numpties_ after us?” she exclaims, shaking her head. “No. No way. Why the fuck would he do that?”

“I don’t think he meant for you to be here,” I muse aloud. “But he has to know I’ve been to his house. He knows, and he’s determined to keep me from getting back to school for some reason.”

“Does he really think you would be taken down by numpties?” she asks, unconvinced. She glances around at the still empty parking lot and lowers her voice. “You’re a _vampire_. And a mage. There’s no way this would work.”

My mind is racing. The Mage. Numpties. A kidnapping plot. Why doesn’t he want me back at Watford? And why wait until today? School starts tomorrow, most students are already back anyway. Bunce and Snow went back this morning, and —

Snow.

“It doesn’t matter if it worked, he just needed a distraction,” I bark out, rising to my feet. “Drop the presents, we have to get to school.”

“What, _now?_ ” Wellbelove screeches. I nod, barely paying attention to her as I dig around in my pockets for the keys to the Jag. “Baz, we can’t just take off now. You’re hurt. You have to tell someone, and anyway how do you even know—”

“Who the fuck else would it be?” I snarl. I don’t have time for this. Snow is at Watford and the Mage wanted me out of the way. At least Bunce is with him. Crowley, I pray she doesn’t let him out of her sight. “The Mage is planning something, and I’m leaving. You can come with or stay here.”

“Fuck this,” she says, shaking her head. Her pretty blonde hair whips around her like a tornado. “No, I’m not rushing off to get in a fight with the _Mage_ and see you guys get hurt and probably get blown up myself. No. We’re not doing this. This isn’t our job, we need to _tell_ someone.”

“Then stay behind and deal with the numpties,” I tell her, striding across the parking lot toward the Jag.

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch, don’t you dare do this!” Wellbelove shouts. Her voice is sharp and terrified. “Get back here! You absolute idiot, you’re bleeding from your head!”

“Keep yourself safe,” I shout back, unlocking the car and sliding inside. “Tell my parents where I’ve gone, but don’t come. Stay home and stay out of the way.”

I slam the door before she can respond, but she looks stricken. Close to tears. Absolutely terrified.

As I pull out of the parking lot at breakneck speed, I see her kick weakly at one of the numpties and wipe her eyes. I feel for her, I really do.

But I have to get to Simon.

 

***

 

The trip from the club to Watford is only an hour, but with traffic it seems stretched out into eternity. I’m wreckless the entire way up, casting _“_ ** _make way for the king!_** _”_ as I go. It occurs to me after the second time I do this that I have to stop; I’ll use up all my power just getting there, and I’ll be drained by the time I show up. I’m already weaker than I would like to be, due to the huge gash on my head.

(I tried to cast _get well soon_ on it, but it didn’t really take, and I don’t have time to futz.)

(I’m also trying really hard not to think about the thick, cracking blood that’s dried to my neck, or the fact that my hair is wet and cold from the sticky liquid.)

After twenty minutes on the road I pull out my phone and dial Bunce’s number with semi-shaking hands. It rings and rings and rings, and then directs me to voicemail. It takes an incredible amount of restraint not to throw it out the window.

“Answer your fucking mobile!” I snarl into the voicemail message. “Wellbelove and I just got attacked by fucking numpties, and they had to be sent by the Mage. I’m on my way to school. I don’t know what’s happening but do not let Simon out of your sight.”

I hang up and dial Niall.

“Oi, did I leave my hoodie at your place?” Niall says instead of a hello.

“Are you at school?” I ask. There’s a pause, and I drum my fingers anxiously into the Jag’s sleek leather steering wheel.

“Uh, no. We haven’t left yet. Why?”

I curse and slam the heel of my palm into the wheel and accelerate to get around a lorry.

“Wellbelove and I got attacked by numpties after the shower.”

“What?”

“They were sent to kidnap me,” I continue, steam rolling over his loud exclamation. My voice is surprisingly steady. “Three guesses who sent them. I’m on my way to Watford right now. I think something is happening.”

There’s muffled cursing on the other line and the sound of crashing, and then Dev’s voice. “ _What’s happening? What’s wrong?”_ When Niall speaks again, he’s panting slightly. “What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know, but I think the Mage wanted me out of the way for something. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have sent numpties. They’re not a real threat. He just wanted me out of action or distracted. But _why?_ ”

Niall is silent on the other end of the line for a moment. In the silence, a thousand knives that have been hacking at my stomach begin to work their way up to my lungs.

“Because he’s doing something at Watford that he doesn’t want you there for.”

I let out a huge puff of air. Deep in the back of my mind, the part that isn’t taken up by panic and fear and the intense need to get to Simon _right now_ , I’ve been worried that I’m overreacting, that I’m jumping to the worst possible conclusion, that this was just a freak event and I’m going to show up at Watford ready for a show down and only end up scaring people and humiliating myself. But hearing Niall come to the same conclusion is a wild relief.

“Call Keris,” Niall says suddenly. “I know she’s there already. She can at least tell you if something is happening.”

“I don’t have her number,” I grind out.

“It’s alright, I’ll call her, then call you back.”

“Don’t bother,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I’ll be there soon. Just get here, yeah?”

“We’re already in the car.” That’s Dev’s voice. Niall must have me on speakerphone. “Don’t do anything stupid, Baz.”

I laugh, harsh and bitter and staccato in the suffocating silence of the car.

“I’ll do what I have to,” I respond, then hang up the call and take a deep breath.

I need desperately to not be alone in the silence right now, and I punch on the radio. The bluetooth of the jac immediately connects to my phone, starting at the first song in my library.

 _All we ever wanted is everything_ , Bauhaus croons at me. But that’s not true. There’s just one thing I want. But I’ll be there soon. I’ll see him soon.

 

***

 

Watford looks normal when I pull up.

It’s still light enough that the Crucible ceremony won’t have started, but I can see the smoke and embers flicking up from the Lawn that means the bonfire has been lit. If I quiet my fear I can imagine exactly what it looks like: students milling around, eating food. Upper years stretched out on blankets. Young students running around finding their friends, and first years clumped, looking terrified, trying to pretend they know what’s going on. Eleven year olds, standing around, waiting to meet their new roommates and friends, the people they’ll be with for the next eight years. The people who will are going to shape their lives, whether they realise it or not.

I pause at the gate and wait for it to open, but it doesn’t. Instead, a man in green comes striding toward me. My heart races for a moment, but then calms; it’s not the Mage. It’s Bunce.

“Why did you drive yourself?” Premal asks the moment I roll down the window. My hands are tight on the wheel, but I try to remind myself that this is good. Of all the Mage’s Men who I could have to deal with, Bunce is the absolute best of the lot. I’ve no idea why we have security at the gate — the Humdrum is _dead_ — but Bunce is the only one I have a chance of getting through.

“Last year,” I respond with an affected shrug of nonchalance, reaching over to turn down the music. I’ve managed to make it through the A’s all the way to _Anarchy In The U.K_. “Thought I’d show up in style.”

Bunce stares at me for a moment.

“You aren’t allowed to keep a car here as a student.”

My fingers tighten. My insides are screaming. I need to get through that gate and into the school and I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth if I have to do it.

“My father is going to get it. Calm down,” I drawl, and look ahead, trying to seem bored. “So am I allowed in or are we going to chat all day? Care to reminisce?”

Bunce scowls at me, his heavy dark brows knitting together in annoyance, then steps back and waves at the gate. It opens slowly, the gates creaking on their hinges, and I rev the engine and slam through as soon as it’s clear, throwing a cloud of dirt over Premal.

I race up the hill and around to the parking lot, and throw the Jag into park as soon as I hit the gravel, and then I’m out, slamming the door and striding as quickly as possible toward the Lawn.

I don’t run. I don’t want to cause more of a scene than necessary. It’s possible that Premal wil have informed the Mage I’m here, but in case he hasn’t, I don’t need to be seen streaking across the grounds like a madman.

Things are exactly as I thought they’d be. Students are chatting. Teachers are walking around. Hollow sees me and gives me a wave that I don’t return, because I’m fixated on getting to Mummers.

“Basil!”

I whip around to see Penelope Bunce running toward me, a frazzled expression on her face.

“Where’s Simon?” I bark. She frowns.

“In his room. What’s going on?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I ask, not breaking stride.

“I didn’t have it,” she snaps back, huffing. “I was in the library looking for an old copy of the _Record_ about Visitings and someone locked me in. I couldn’t get out until Keris came and found me, and she said that Niall had called her, and that you had called Niall, and—”

“Something is happening. The Mage is doing something. He sent numpties after Wellbelove and me. I’d bet he had you locked in the library as well.”

We’ve reached the door of Mummers and I yank it open. I’m about to tell her to wait here, that we don’t have time for her to do whatever complicated black magic it is that lets her get past the wards that keep girls out, but she follows me in without a sound.

“My mum broke the wards when my dad lived in Mummers,” she explains when she sees my raised eyebrow. “It lets all women in my family in now.”

“Your mother sounds terrifying and I cannot wait to meet her,” I say, dashing up the stairs, Bunce on my heels. We ignore curious looks as we go, and when we get to the landing just before the tower, we stop.

There are voices in the room. They’re clearly audible over the music that’s drifting under the crack in the door. Snow must have put on music as soon as he got back. _Atmosphere_ , Joy Division. I can’t hear the lyrics, but I can feel the drums, like the rhythm is beating out inside my chest.

“Sir, I don’t understand,” Snow is saying. His voice is muffled through the door, but with my souped up hearing, it’s clear. I can tell he’s standing by the window. I can tell that his breathing is elevated.

“I’ll explain in the car, but we really need to go, Simon.”

The Mage. He sounds tired. Weary. Worn down.

Good.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere,” Snow says, his voice sharp. “I don’t understand what this danger is, and I’m not comfortable leaving until I know what’s going on. I need to tell people what’s happening.”

“Your friends will be informed, I promise. Penelope is already aware, and her parents are taking measures to keep her safe, as well as Agatha and Mr. Pitch.”

“Safe from what? The Humdrum is dead.”

“Simon, trust me, I will explain it all, but first we have to go. There’s no time.”

Bunce’s eyes are wide, and she’s biting her lip, shocked. I am too. I’ve _known_. I’ve always known, with absolute certainty, that the Mage is evil. That’s he’s awful and up to something. But actively hearing him lie, knowing he’s trying to get Simon away from school, away from us, where he’s safe — it’s still, somehow, shocking.

What the hell is the Mage trying to get him away for?

I want to burst into the room and kill him. I want to sweep in throwing accusations and take him down, and I know Bunce does as well. She’s just put her hair up and twisted her ring around, but I put a hand on her arm. The Mage is in front of the door. Simon is at the window. If we bust in now, the Mage is caught in the middle, and he can block us from Simon.

We have to wait.

“Simon, really, I hate to do this but you don’t have a choice. This is an order. We’re leaving, grab your things.”

“No.”

There’s a sound, and then a muffled gasp from the Mage.

“Simon, what are you doing? Put that away.”

“No,” comes Snow’s voice again. Sharp, harsh. Blank. He’s locked up his thoughts and feelings. He’s gone into hero mode. “Tell me where we are going. Explain what is happening. I refuse to get dragged somewhere without my permission ever again.”

“You’re being childish about this,” the Mage blustres. “Put that sword away, this is ridiculous. I don’t want to hurt you, SImon, I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Bunce and I exchange looks. Snow pulled his _sword_ on the Mage?

“Why did you have a dead baby dragon in your house?” Snow asks suddenly. “Why did you make me drink its blood?”

Absolute silence. And then the song switches, and _Blitzkrieg Bop_ starts up, and I realise that Snow is listening to one of my old playlists. He hates The Ramones. He hates this song. He says it’s cliche.

“So you helped Mr. Pitch break into my house.” The Mage’s voice lacks all the persuasion and warmth of a moment ago. “I had hoped you weren’t involved in that.”

Simon doesn’t respond, and Joey Ramone keeps shouting.

_Hey, ho, let's go_

_Shoot'em in the back now_

The Mage sighs.

“I’m extremely disappointed in you, Simon. After everything we’ve been through. Everything we’ve worked for. I never thought you would turn on me like this.” The Mage sighs again, and then laughs bleakly. “I suppose that is the nature of youth. We never appreciate what we have. We’re always fighting against those who love us.”

“You don’t love me,” Snow snarls. His voice is closer. He’s turning. “You used me.”

“Are those your feelings, or Mr. Pitch’s feelings?”

“Leave him out of this,” Snow barks. “Why did you kill the baby dragon?”

“For you, Simon.” The Mage sounds calm. Too calm. “Don’t you know all of this has been for you? You are the Greatest Mage. The Chosen One. You did what no one else could do, and everything I’ve done has been to help you get there.” He laughs again. “If only you had listened to me, if you had just _let me help you_ instead of allying yourself with Mr. Pitch, maybe we could have done it properly. You could have kept your incredible magic, Simon. If you had just let me fix you—”

“I’m not broken!” Snow shouts, and Bunce and I simultaneously break.

“ ** _Open sesame!_** ” Bunce casts, and the door flies open.

The Mage spins, his eyes wide. Snow has turned him so he’s backed up against the window. He hasn’t drawn either his sword or his wand, but Snow has both out and he’s relaxed into his fighting stance.

In the second he turns to look at Bunce and me, the Mage draws his wand.

“ ** _Stop in the name of love!_** ” I shout, and the Mage freezes. It’s only temporary — he’ll push through it in a second — but it confirms my gut reaction. He was about to do _something_ to hurt Simon or Bunce. The spell only works if the person you cast it on was going to hurt someone the caster loves.

“Baz get back!” Simon shouts, just as the Mage pulls free of his temporary bind. But the older man’s wand comes up too fast and he snarls out “ ** _have a nice trip!_** ” and I fall flat on the floor.

Everything is dizzy; I hit my head against a chair on the way down, and there’s a heat on the back of my neck that I think may be more blood.

“Mr. Pitch, that is your only warning. Lower your wand and remove yourself. It is against Coven law to attack the Mage, and it is against Watford rules to attack a teacher.”

“It’s also against the law to hire hitmen for a murder,” I snarl from the floor. The Mage goes rigid. “I’m fairly sure it’s against Watford rules to conspire with dark creatures and depose the headmistress. I wonder if the Coven condones sending numpties to attack two students.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Mage says, never breaking eye contact.

“I think he does,” Simon says quietly, his sword still raised.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” I say, pushing myself into a standing position. “You left witnesses. There are three numpties tied up in Hampshire who failed to kidnap me. There’s a vampire who knows what you did to my mother. You really don’t clean up after yourself, do you?”

“Mr. Pitch, this is your last warning. Stand down,” the Mage says, brandishing his wand. I try to snarl, but I stagger slightly. He turns to Simon, still brandishing his sword, and looks sad. “Mr. Pitch is an anarchist. He is the type of boy who wants to see the world burn, Simon. You’re not that kind of boy. Come with me. Let me keep you safe. Together we can fix things.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Bunce says, squaring herself in front of the door. Her hand is curled into a fist, her ring pointing out. Her voice is shaking, but her expression is determined. “Sir, I think it’s time you give up. We know. We know it all, sir.”

The Mage stares at her, confused, and I can see Simon’s sword waiver slightly.

“I’ve been in your house,” I say quietly. “I know what’s buried in your garden.”

I meant the dragon. I was talking about the dragon. But the look on the Mage’s face right now makes me realise there is so much more than a dragon buried there.

“ ** _Make way for the king!_** ” he shouts, and I go flying to the side, but Bunce is fast — lightning fast, spitting out “ ** _the lady’s not for turning!”_ ** and planting her feet. I hate Margaret Thatcher, but it’s a wickedly useful spell for being obstinate and standing your ground.

“ ** _Move, bitch, get out of the way!_ ** the Mage snarls, and Bunce stumbles, her legs giving out as she careens into the desk. The Mage flies by her and out the door.

He’s making a run for it.

“Baz! Are you okay?” Simon shouts, clambering across the room. He steps on my old iPod and there’s a crack as the screen breaks beneath his foot, and he slips a bit. The XTC song that had been playing suddenly cuts off. “Penny, I’m so—”

“No time for that,” I say, pushing myself up and grabbing Bunce’s hand. “We have to follow him.”

“Baz, he doesn’t matter, let him—”

I turn on Simon. He looks scared. Scared and overwhelmed and unsure. He sheaths his sword into thin air with a flick of his hand.

“I can’t just let him go,” I say quietly, and pray that he’ll understand. Everything is swimming; I can smell my own blood and my head feels heavy, but he _has_ to understand. If he stops me… I don’t know what I’ll do.

Everything has come down to this one moment.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, and holds open the door.

I race out of it and down the long, spiralling staircase that runs through all of Mummers. I’m dizzy from running in circles, and I sway slightly as I burst out into the fading sunlight and squint across the Lawn. A green figure, moving quickly, making his way toward the bonfire.

I dart after him, not putting on my full speed (because I don’t even know if I can at this point) but my long legs carry me quickly enough. The Mage isn’t running. Probably because he knows how suspicious that would look. But it makes it easy to catch up and get within ear shot.

“Once again, you left a loose end!” I shout across the Lawn. Heads go up all around me and a wave of gasps spreads as students see me. I’m sure I must look awful. Covered in blood, marching across the Lawn in an expensive suit. I must look murderous. The Mage doesn’t stop — just keeps walking. Behind me, Snow and Bunce are struggling to keep up.

“Who’s the woman, Davy?” I call. “Who was the woman in the photo? What did you do with the child?”

The Mage stops.

He doesn’t turn, though. His back is to me, and his hands are clenched into fists at his side, and it gives me the chance to get closer.

“Tell them what you did, Davy,” I shout again. My voice cracks across the courtyard like a whip.

The Mage spins around like lightning, shooting off a spell so fast I don’t even hear it. It catches me in the side and I stumble as lancing pain tickles up my side. Students gasp and scramble out of the way, but I catch myself before I fall completely.

Suddenly there’s a warmth at my side. It’s Simon.

“Don’t hurt him!”

“Simon, get away from him. That boy is dangerous,” the Mage tells him. His calm from earlier is gone, and his voice is like a tight line. “You don’t know what he is. He’s a monster, Simon.”

“At least I’m not a murderer like you,” I retort, trying to cut him off before he says it. Before he announces to the entire school what I am. “Tell them. Tell them what you did to my mother. Tell them what happened to the woman in the picture.”

“What woman?” Simon asks, turning between me and the Mage. Behind us Bunce is crying. Openly crying, her hands pressed over her mouth. Simon turns back to the Mage. His jaw is set, his brows heavy, his eyes completely blank. “What woman? What did he mean by what did you do with the child?”

“Tell him, Davy,” I say, striding forward. The Mage catches me with another spell, this one to my chest, and I stumble again in a burst of white hot pain. Bunce screams.

“What child?” Snow demands. The students around us have backed off. The professors are looking on, terrified and unsure. Hollow seems to be physically restraining Possibelf from joining the fray.

“Simon, this isn’t the time. He’s fed you lies,” the Mage says. “He—”

“I want the truth!” Simon shouts, and pulls his wand. “ ** _I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!_** ”

“Simon, no!” Bunce yells, but it’s too late. The Mage has gone rigid, his jaw working as he tries to keep the truth inside, fighting desperately against the illegal spell.

If Snow had his full powers — his old powers — the Mage would be sobbing out his sins right now. But Simon isn’t that strong anymore. His spell is weaker. The Mage might be able to fight it.

“Sacrifices had to be made. For the Greater Good,” the Mage bites out, looking for all the world like he wants to cut out his tongue. “Lucy understood. She always understood. You were the Greatest Mage, and she knew how important you were going to be. You were going to save us all. And you did, Simon. You did. So much power… but you were broken. I tried to fix you.” The Mage makes a noise that sounds like a sob. “I can still fix you, son, just come—”

“Stop,” Simon says, shaking his head. “No, stop. I don’t — I dont want to know this. I don’t—”

“Tell them what you did to my mother,” I command, putting my hand over Snow’s. He looks up at me, horrified. Lost. I hate myself for making him go through this. I hate everything. I hate everyone but him. I’ll never make this right with him.

“I… I didn’t mean to kill her,” the Mage grits out. The crowd of students begin talking and yelling frantically. “She was just meant to be Turned, to show her what it was like. I didn’t know she’d set herself…” his jaw starts churning again, and he shuts up. The spell has run its course.

But the damage is done. And he knows it.

“Give it up, Davy,” I say, moving toward him again. My stomach is swooping with sick, twisted victory. The truth is out. There’s nowhere for him to go — not really. It’s either into the fire or into the moat. I pull flames from the bonfire into my hand. “Everyone knows. Give yourself up.”

“ ** _Have a nice trip!_** _”_ he shouts, but Simon darts in front of me, using his body to physically block me from the Mage.

“ ** _Can’t touch this!_** ” he yells in response, effectively blocking the worst of the spell. But the force of it does send us sliding back a bit. We’re both weak. Weaker than we should be. If I used my fangs and Snow used his sword, we could take him out. But neither of us wants to kill him. We can’t kill him. We’re not killers. Not really.

But he is. If he gets one good spell in, he could finish us.

“What’s going on here?” comes a loud voice on the other side of the bonfire. The Mage’s attention gets pulled from us and onto the towering blonde figure that’s making her way over, an oversized staff in hand. Ebb.

“Stay out of this, Petty. Either help me restrain Mr. Pitch or go home.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” Ebb says, and she actually sounds regretful. Resigned. She doesn’t seem like she wants to be here. Behind her, panting, are Dev and Niall. But they’re too far away to be of any use. Neither of them have good range with their spells.

“He’s using illegal magic and spreading lies!” the Mage shouts. “The boy is a heretic and an anarchist!”

“You’re the liar,” Snow says, his voice deathly soft. “You… you lied. You used me. You…” he straights up, his eyes hard. “You won’t hurt Baz.”

I’m fading. I feel Snow’s hand on me, but there’s not much else that I can focus on. The Mage. I have to stop the Mage. I fire off a spell to bind him, but it misses. The Mage looks around. Backed in a proverbial corner.

And then our eyes lock.

“Your mother was an elitist and a tyrant. But she faced her death head on, boy,” he says. I frown and step out from behind Simon.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ ** _Don’t stop me now!_** ” the Mage shouts, and turns to run, but I catch him in time, shooting off a _“_ ** _momma said knock you out!_** ” It’s weak and it bounces off his spell, but it causes him to stumble. There’s really nowhere for him to go but into the moat, over the fire, or through the huge crowd of students blocking his exit.

I move toward him on heavy feet.

“Stand down, Mr. Pitch!” he commands, firing off a _“_ ** _helter skelter_**.” My world goes sideways, and I shoot back a mumbled curse. It barely hits him.

“Stop it!” Simon shouts. Behind him, Penny is crying, firing off spells as well, but the Mage is too strong. He’s deflecting all of them. “Stop it! Stop this!”

But no one listens. His magic doesn’t work like that any more, and he’s weakened. Between his shouts for us to stop he tries to fire spells, but they’re going nowhere, and he’s flagging, unable to force the world to bend to his will. I stumble forward again and the Mage hits me with another spell, this one slicing through my shoulder. It draws blood. Lots of it.

Beside me, Snow pulls out the sword of Mages again, throws his wand to the ground, and squares his jaw. I fire off another spell, desperately, and it hits the Mage’s arm. He hisses in pain, but doesn’t drop his wand.

“Simon, call off your dog,” the Mage commands.

“You’ll have to kill me first, Davy,” I spit. Behind me Bunce yells something, and out of the corner of my eye I see Professor Hollow breaking through the crowd, pushing past Possibelf’s white face. Niall makes a break for it too, but Dev grabs the back of his jumper and pulls him back.

I look back at the Mage as one bronze eyebrow goes up, and so does his wand.

“ ** _Dead as a doornail!_** _”_ he shouts. And time slows.

The spell has a physical manifestation. A bright red arrow, shooting straight toward me. It’s angled to my heart. It will be here in a moment, shot through, and then I’ll be down. Bleeding out on the grass of the Lawn. Killed at Watford, just like my mother.

If I die here, I’ll be buried here. Just like my mother.

A snarl rips out of Snow’s mouth, and he leaps in front of me.

 ** _“Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone!”_** Ebb shouts just as the spell leaves the Mage’s wand, and suddenly a blinding blue light flares up around Snow and mw, surrounding us on all sides, and I watch, detached, as the red light hits Ebb’s forcefield, and then violently ricochets back on its caster.

The Mage is already dead when his body tumbles backward into the moat and is pulled under by the merwolves.

 

****

 

Life slips by so quickly that sometimes I wonder if someone cast “ _time flies when you’re having fun_.”

But they couldn’t have.

No one is having any fun.

I celebrate my eighteenth birthday sitting on a hard bench next to Simon as we give testimony to the Coven about what we found in the Mage’s cottage in Wales. Everything comes out. The dragon. The photo. The books. I tell them about my meeting with Nicodemus, and Simon tells them about the Mage giving him dragon blood, and we spend eight full hours recounting what happened with the Humdrum.

The real version. The version that involves Snow giving me his power, and me falling apart, and Snow apologising to the Humdrum. We tell them just about everything except me needing to take a break to kill a bunny and drain its blood. My father and Mrs. Bunce and a handful of stoney-faced mages listen to it all, breaking in regularly to ask questions.

They wanted to talk to Simon and me separately, but my father and Dr. Wellbelove shut that down quickly. I wouldn’t leave him, and I don’t think my father enjoyed the idea of the scene it would cause if someone tried to force me to. So I sat next to Simon during the entire day and let him clutch my hand so tight under the table I thought it may break.

When it comes time to tell them what happened on the actual day of the showdown, Simon shuts down, and I recount it all.

Simon is silent and slow the entire ride back to the Wellbeloves’. We have to go back tomorrow, to walk through things again. They want to talk about the numpty attack, and why the Mage tried so desperately to get Simon to leave Watford.

No one knows why the Mage was so insistent on getting Simon away, but Bunce is the one to come up with the most compelling theory. The Visitings started the same day that school did.

For the first time in twenty years, the Veil between worlds is thin enough for spirits with unfinished business to cross over.

“It used to happen all the time! People who who had killed someone would suddenly try to cover their tracks when the Visitings came around,” Bunce says. We’re sitting in the Wellbeloves’ den, pretending to watch TV, while tactfully ignoring the fact that Mrs. Wellbelove hovered in an out of the room every three minutes, offering us refreshments as an excuse to check on Simon. She and Dr. Wellbelove almost never let him out of their sight. Mrs. Wellbelove wants to go with us to the questioning tomorrow. “There’s a family in Scotland who lost a different family member every twenty years because the murderer kept killing the person most likely to avenge the previous deaths.”

“That’s morbid as hell,” Wellbelove mutters from her seat next to Bunce.

“So the Mage thought someone was likely to Visit Snow?” I ask. Bunce looks grim and nods.

“I think there’s a chance he thought you might both get Visitings.”

“But we didn’t,” Simon says from next to me. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours. He’s tucked up under a fleece throw blanket with horses on it, his chin resting on his knees. His cold, bare toes are shoved under my thigh. “No one Visited us.”

“I guess they knew you were already in the process of avenging them and learning the truth,” Bunce responds with a shrug.

“But the Veil isn’t closed yet,” I say, hating myself as the words come out. “We could still get Visits.”

“You could…” Bunce says, but I know she doesn’t think I’m right.

Snow rises to his feet suddenly, shaking off the blanket and striding to look out one of the many glass windows that line the den, and stares out into the dark garden.

“You think he was trying to hide me from a ghost,” he says. “A ghost.”

“Well, it’s just a theory,” Bunce says quickly. “Who knows what he was thinking. He also said all that stuff about—”

“Fixing me,” Snow cuts in. “He said he wanted me to come with him so he could fix me. Make me work. Make my magic work.”

We watch slowly as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wand. Bone and cedar, and heirloom from the Mage. It’s never worked for him, not really. We all just assumed it was because there wasn’t a blood relation.

He stares down at the wand, as if it can give him the answers to the universe, and then he snaps it in half.

Bunce gasps and I move forward without realising it, trying to stop him, but it’s too late. The wand is broken, each half hanging limply in Snow’s hands.

Magical instruments can’t be repaired.

“Oh, Simon,” Bunce whispers. She looks close to tears. My jaw is working so fast that I don’t know what to do with it, like I’m about to say something, but there’s no words that could ever possibly come out. I’ve never heard of someone willingly snapping their wand. It’s a punishment, the worst thing you can do to a Mage, and—

“I don’t want it,” he says. He swallows. One of his ridiculous swallows, where his Adam’s apple juts out and it’s a big showy scene. “I don’t want his wand. I don’t want the magic. He said… I don’t want it. Magic’s never done anything for me.”

Bunce and me are both holding ourselves back from falling apart, even though we both want to go to him and wrap our arms around him. But we’re speechless, motionless. Someone needs to go to him, someone needs to be there for us, but we’re frozen.

It’s not us who breaks first — it’s Wellbelove.

“Oh, Simon,” she says, bursting between us and wrapping her tiny arms around his waist. “That’s okay,” she whispers into his chest. “That’s perfectly okay.”

Snow sags under the weight of her words and drops his head into her small blonde hair. It’s a pretty scene; a little glimpse of what the world could have been, in a different life. Battle weary Simon, worn down by the world, taking refuge and shelter in the arms of the sweet, delicate Wellbelove.

Bunce and I don’t know what to say. Magic is everything to us. Power and knowledge, and… the idea of snapping our instruments, of giving it all up is impossible for us to even contemplate.

Not Wellbelove though.

Later that night she snaps her wand too, as her mother looks on and sobs. Dr. Wellbelove says nothing, just watches as his daughter — and his adopted son — firmly close the door on one branch of their futures.

Bunce and I don’t know what to say, so we don’t say anything.

 

***

 

I’m the only one who came back to Watford. Snow could have, if he’d wanted to. No one would stop him, not now. Now that he has real magic of his own. Now that we know the truth. We could have replaced his instrument, but he refused. He refused it all.

I didn’t argue with him. There’s no point in fighting with Snow; I’ll never win.

“I wish you would come back with me,” I had said quietly. We were sitting at the bottom of the Wellbeloves’ garden, holding hands, staring at nothing. He was wearing my hoodie — the one he took from me the day we killed the Humdrum.

“I wish I would too,” he’d responded, and gripped my hand tighter. He rested his head on my shoulder, and I didn’t argue. How could I? His life has been tipped upside down and shredded from the inside out. If he wants to make a decision for himself — even one that I hate — who am I to stop him? I want him at Watford. I want him with me so badly it makes me ache inside, but that’s because I always want him. I want him in my line of vision and sleeping next to me and within arm’s reach so that I can make sure he’s alright.

He’s not alright. But all things considered, he’s doing as well as could be expected.

For one brief moment, I thought about following Bunce’s lead and staying home from school as well.

“Eighth year is optional, and it’s not like we’ll be learning anything useful. I’m better off teaching myself, anyway,” she’d said with a shrug. But I know the truth. She’s staying for Snow. She’s watching him because I can’t.

And I can’t. Not really. I had to come back to Watford. Even after everything, I can’t….

My mother would want me to finish my schooling.

Mitali Bunce has been installed as temporary headmistress, though I’m fairly sure she’ll stay on to do the job permanently. I expected her to have something to say about her daughter’s decision to disenroll, but apparently there wasn’t a fight. I guess Bunce women recognise each other’s stubbornness.

Wellbelove didn’t come back either. Not that she could have, without her wand. Allowances would have been made for Snow, but not for her. She doesn’t mind though; she’s set herself to taking as many courses and tests as possible, because she’s decided to apply to school in America.

“I’m going to California,” she announced. It was three weeks after the Mage was killed, a week before I was due back at Watford, and we were all seated in my back garden, drinking coffee and trying to play Scrabble. Bunce and I were the only ones playing. Snow had gotten distracted by a beetle, and Wellbelove was on her phone.

“Okay…” Bunce had said, and Wellbelove straightened up.

“I’m going to California for college. Where this is sun, and good music, and no magic. And I’m going to become a vet.”

“That’s…” Bunce scrunched up her face. “That’s… why America?”

“Because that’s what I’ve decided,” Wellbelove shot back.

The idea of going to California sounded a bit like hell to me, and I was still struggling with how to react to the news that one of my best friends was running away to the other side of the world, when Snow sat up and nodded.

“I think that’s great, Aggie,” he said, his voice raspy with disuse. He’s reverted to not speaking hardly at all. It’s like first year all over again. “California sounds brilliant.”

Wellbelove smiled happily and the two shared their own private smile — the same kind of baffling understanding passing between them that they shared the night they snapped their wands — and for a horrifying moment I was terrified that Snow was going to announce he was going to California as well.

“I’ll miss her,” he said that night as we lingered on the Wellbeloves’ stoop, just before I was about to leave to drive to Hampshire. “California is far.”

“You can always visit her,” I’d said, stiffly. Terrified. Sure this was it. He shrugged.

“Maybe. Maybe once everything has settled down we can go see her. Or maybe she’ll come home and see us.” He shrugged and then scrunched up his face. “I couldn’t imagine being that far away from you.”

The wave of relief that hit me was almost physical.

I’m glad he doesn’t want to go to California. I’m a fan of the Led Zeppelin song as much as anyone, but I don’t want to live it. I can barely handle having him in Surrey while I’m at Watford. Being away from him is excruciating.

Dev and Niall help, though. It’s just us now, back at Watford. They’ve made it their mission to bully me out of any depressive moods. Between the two of them, I’m almost never alone in my room. One or both of them are always hanging around when I’m studying or reading, and several times I’ve gone back to the room after class to find Niall already there, tucked up on the windowseat doing his homework, listening to Soft Cell or The Kinks. They aren’t artists I’ve ever heard him listen to before, so I know he’s doing it for me.

They’ve enlisted Keris and Trixie — of all people — into their plan as well. The two girls sit with us at lunchtime now. Trixie chatters at me over tea, and Keris and I quietly pass class notes back and forth, and she and Dev get into conversations about grime musicians I’ve never heard of, and Niall and Trixie strike up a running argument about whether sugar in tea is revolting or not. (Niall says it isn’t, Trixie says it is.) (For the record, it isn’t.) (Black tea is a travesty.)

They even convince me to go back to the nursery, and the five of us spend several evenings there, listening to music and lying on the floor and concocting elaborate theories about the Mage’s evil deeds and it’s… nice.

It’s not Watford like I’ve known it, and it’s not Watford as I’d want it, but it’s nice.

But it will never feel right without Simon here. My only frame of reference is those few months during third year when he and Bunce were stuck in a hell dimension, but I didn’t exactly stop to embrace the experience, considering I was stoned out of my mind and having a gay, vampiric crisis at the time.

Minus the puberty, though, sometimes it feels pretty similar.

Three weeks in, even despite our regular texts and nightly phone calls, I’m going mad. Headmistress Bunce lifted the electronics ban, and the Wellbeloves bought him his own iPhone, so it’s made conversation easier, but it’s not the same. Not really.

“So I was thinking,” Snow says one night as we lay in our respective beds, miles apart, talking on the phone. “Would you mind if I came up to Watford this weekend?”

I sit up so fast I nearly hit my head on the window seat.

“Are you ready for that?” I blurt out without thinking. Of course I want him to come.  Of course I want him here. It’s all I want in the world. It’s all I want every minute of every day. But we’ve never discussed this before. Not even remotely. I just assumed he never wanted to be at Watford ever again.

“Yeah,” he says, almost a whisper. “I don’t… I dont want to come back to school. I don’t want that. But… Watford is my home. And Penny says… Penny says that after everything, I shouldn’t let him take my home from me.”

“Bunce makes a very good point,” I say cautiously.

“Yeah, she always does,” he says with a weak laugh. “And you know, I’ve got this phone now and Spotify but I’ve no idea where to start with it, so I thought you could set it up.”

It’s a lie. It’s saving face. But I can read between the lines. He misses me. And Crowley, I miss him.

“Yes,” I say, resolute. “Yes. Come up. I’ll talk to Headmistress Bunce.”

“Penny already did,” he says immediately. “Apparently it’s not really allowed, but she doesn’t care. She says if anyone asks, I’m here for Ebb, which works because I do want to see her, and she did ask me to help her go through and fix some of the fences. But, yeah, Headmistress Bunce says that when it comes to you and I, rules have never really applied.”

He’s right, but it’s still odd to hear it confirmed by an authority figure. But then again, it’s been abundantly clear to me since coming back that no one knows what to do with me. The teachers all treat me more like a peer than a student. I do my work, and I do it well, but it’s obvious that they don’t expect me to. My presence in class is regarded as a decision rather than an expectation.

The students don’t know what to do with me, either. No one other than Niall, Keris, Trixie and Dev approach me. After watching me square off with the Mage in the middle of the Lawn — after watching me almost die — I imagine it’s weird to think about striking up a friendship.

Not that I mind. I have enough friends.

The only person who treats me the same as always, oddly enough, is Ebb.

Ebb, who saved my life. Ebb, who saved Simon. Ebb, who killed the Mage. Ebb, who has a bucketload of power concealed somewhere under her layers of knit scarves, who still gives me a distracted nod when we pass, but calls out a cheery hello when she’s herding the goats.

Ebb, who I think might be the only person in the world, other than me, who would also kill for Simon. Ebb, who I’ll probably never be able to repay.

“Yes,” I repeat. “Come up tomorrow.”

“Good,” he breathes, and I can hear a small ghost of a smile in his voice. “Yeah. That’ll be good.”

 

***

 

He’s late.

He was meant to be on the 10 a.m. train to Watford, and he’s late. I’m in the village, waiting for him at the station. We were going to go get lunch and ease him into being back, but he’s late. It’s past noon now, and he’s not answering his mobile, and I’m, admittedly, on the brink of a meltdown.

I’ve called Bunce twice, but she hasn’t answered, and neither did Agatha. Finally I called the Wellbeloves. I had to get their home number from Fiona, who is apparently the only person in my life that answers her fucking phone, but Mrs. Wellbelove calmly informed me that Snow did in fact leave for the train station. He was just delayed after getting an unexpected visit.

I’m about ready to burn the world down when he finally, finally gets off the train.

He looks unscathed and in one piece, wearing new jeans and an old jumper that are clean and not covered in blood. But he looks a bit stunned. Confused. His bookbag is hanging off one shoulder, and I cross to him immediately and grab it, then grab his hand.

“You’re late,” I tell him as I march us out of the station and down the road to the pub. The Watford Arms. The same pub that Malcolm always takes us to, with disastrous results. Maybe it’s tempting fate to take him there.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles. He’s so spaced out it’s amazing he even knows where he is. “Something weird happened.”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

I seat us at a booth in the corner, glare at him to make sure he won’t wander away, and go to get us something to eat. They’re playing Queen over the staticky radio — _Under Pressure_ — and it seems like a good enough sign.

I return a moment later with two ales and a plate stacked high with crisps covered in cheese. Snow dumps a bottle of vinegar on them without thinking, and then takes a long, slow sip from his pint. I’m so out of my mind with relief at him getting here that I don’t even yell at him for the excessive vinegar.

“Do you know Lady Salisbury?”

My stomach drops to the floor. I’ve been waiting for this. We haven’t discussed it. No one has said a single word about it, but I knew it was coming. I’ve known it’s coming for months, ever since we learned the name of the pregnant woman in the photo from the cottage in Wales.

During the first of the endless meetings with had with the Coven, when Bunce mentioned the photo we found at the Mage’s house, Mitali Bunce had asked to see it. She’d been rigid and professional and stone faced throughout the entire proceedings, but when she looked at the folded, creased photo of the pregnant woman in the rugby shirt, smiling happily in front of the empty chicken coop, she’d gone deathly white and let out a small gasp.

She’d stared at the photo for several long, long moments, before clearing her throat, dabbing at her eyes, and looking up.

“Let the record show that the photograph is of Lucy Salisbury, date stamped June of 1997. Miss Salisbury was registered as missing in May of 1995. Her mother, Ruth Salisbury, gave testimony that led the Coven to believe her daughter is in California. Her brother, Oliver Salisbury, petitioned the Coven to give contradictory testimony, regarding Miss Salisbury’s romantic relationship with David Llewellyn. However, as Mr. Salisbury has no magical traces and is not a verified Mage, his request was denied.”

And that was it.

No one mentioned Lucy Salisbury again.

Snow had shut down after that. He hadn’t said anything at all for the rest of the meeting, just stared down at the floor. He wouldn’t even hold my hand, he just gripped the bench until his knuckles turnt white and the ridges of the wood pressed indents into his pink skin.

No one mentioned Lucy Salisbury to Simon when the Mage’s will was read out three days later, naming Simon as sole heir. He gave it all away. The money went to Watford. He asked my father to handle sale of the cottage in Wales. He gave the Wellbeloves the Land Rover, and told Bunce and me we could have the books.

(They’re still sitting in the cellar of my father’s house in Hampshire, waiting for someone to sort through them.) (The money from the sale of the cottage is sitting in trust for Simon, even though he doesn’t know that. My father couldn’t bring himself to let Simon give all the money away.) (He’s become oddly invested in Snow’s wellbeing.) (No one knows if it’s actual concern and empathy, or if it’s just an intense desire to spite the Mage.)

The last time I heard Lucy Salisbury’s name was during a whispered conversation between my father, Dr. Wellbelove and Mitali Bunce, the day the Coven sent people to search and empty the cottage in Wales.

They found Lucy Salisbury’s remains in the back garden, buried next to a baby dragon.

I don’t know if anyone told Simon this. I don’t know if anyone has ever formally talked to him about it. Has sat down and discussed why this woman’s photo was in the cottage, why her name keeps being whispered. What it means about him. What it means about his connection with the Mage. What it has to do with all the books on conception rites, and the Humdrum, and the blank spots, and the fact that a sad monster was wearing the face of a scared eleven-year-old-boy.

Everyone knows it. Everyone has put the pieces together and realised it in various stages.

But I don’t know if anyone has ever actually just _said it_.

I take a slow, slow sip of my ale and nod at Simon.

“She came to visit me before I left today,” he says, staring down at the food, his brow furrowed. “She was Lucy Salisbury’s mother. She’s my grandmother.”

And there it is.

Of course Snow would be the first one to say it. He’s always the first one to stumble blindly, bravely, into the terrifying unknown.

I’ve been thinking about Lady Ruth Salisbury. I know her peripherally. She was at Daphne’s baby shower, laughing and drinking and shoving cake on everyone. Her son is always with her. He’s got no magic of his own — completely dry. It happens sometimes, in old families. Not often, though, so when it does happen, it’s always a scandal. But Lady Salisbury met the gossip head on by forcing her son on the World of Mages. He goes everywhere with her, smiling, quiet, good natured, getting his mother more cake, nodding along at her jokes, looking for all the world like the loving, patient, easy-going son of a gregarious social madame.

I’d thought he looked like an older Simon, at the baby shower.

I guess he does.

“What did she say to you?” I ask carefully. Snow shrugs.

“Not much. Just said she’d like to get to know me. Said that there’s… there’s not many Salisburys out there, apparently. But the few that are left would like to meet me, if I’m interested.”

“And what did you say?”

Snow’s lip trembles. He stares closer and more intently at the leaning tower of crisps.

“I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. She just… left a card and told me she’ll be around if I want to talk.”

I let out a long breath and try not to imagine Simon, sitting ramrod straight on the overstuffed white sectional in the Wellbeloves’ sunroom, staring mutely at the nervous, smiling, babbling figure of Lady Salisbury. She always smells vaguely of strawberries, and it’s easy to picture her perfume filling up the room the way that Snow’s smokey magic used to fill the space. I wonder if her son came with her. I wonder if Simon met his uncle.

“Do you want to talk to her?” I push gently.

Snow lets out a long, stuttering breath of air.

“I’m not ready,” he says, shaking his head. “I know she wants me to be. Everyone wants me to be something, but I’m just not ready.” His voice shakes again and he laughs weakly. “Mrs. Bunce wants me to come back to Watford, Dr. Wellbelove wants me to go to uni. Your father wants me to take a seat the Coven. Lady Salisbury wants me to be her grandson. Everyone wants something. Everyone has always wanted something. The Mage wanted something, he wanted everything, and I—” he stutters, his words choking and stumbling and his throat closes up and he goes nonverbal.

He’s right. Everyone wants something from him. Even me. I want him to be happy.

“What do you want?” I ask, reaching out to touch our fingertips together across the sticky pub table. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, looking up to meet my gaze. I reach further and pull his hand into mine, and rub my thumb over his knuckles.

“Brilliant,” I say, giving him a smile I don’t really feel. “Let’s do that then.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again, he smiles at me.

 

****

 

There isn’t really a good way to describe this. The way it feels to have him here, with me, after all this time. After everything that’s happened.

He’s asleep. His warm breath is ghosting against my chest and he’s huffing in his sleep, curled up against me in my too-small twin sized bed. We haven’t been able to do this. Not since the Mage died.

It seems like everything in my life is measured by ‘not since.’ Everything in my life is demarcated by the nights I spent with Snow in my arms. The night the Mage died; wrapped up together in the backseat of Dr. Wellbeloves’ car as we drove back to London. The night in Wales, before we learnt the truth. The night we killed the Humdrum.

I’m glad to have him here. I’ve needed him here; needed his warmth. Needed his reassurance. I’ve spent so much time and energy giving to him, and I hate to admit that I need something back. I’ll never ask for it. Not now. Everyone wants something from him, needs something from him. I can’t add to that pile.

This is what I’ve needed. This is what I haven’t been able to ask for. Simon, his arms around me, in our bed, the rain pattering against the glass and tin window of our room. Safe.

If I close my eyes, I can imagine none of this has happened. Pre-Mage. Pre-Wales. Pre-Humdrum. We’re just two boys, living our lives, figuring things out together. Falling asleep like we used to last year; shoulder to shoulder, sharing an earbud each and nodding off to the sound of music.

Moving my arm slightly, I grasp around for the phone that’s tucked under my pillow. I hiss when the light flickers on, but I squint through the sudden brightness and open up Spotify and turn on my music, as quietly as I can. I’ve made an — admittedly — mordant playlist to help me sleep, and _I’m So Tired_ by Fugazi begins to play, the heavy, discordant piano echoing through our quiet room. It won’t wake him up; Snow could sleep through a war.

I wish I could help him. I wish I could open up his brain and take his jumbled thoughts and untangle them until they ran in smooth, straight lines. I wish I could unsnarl the knots and fix the frayed ends and give them back to him, so he could breathe easily, so he could relax his brow, so he could sleep soundly.

I wish the world hadn’t beaten him down, so that I wouldn’t have to lay here and watch him pick himself back up.

He can do it, though. And he’ll do it on his own, without me. Without anyone. No one’s going to fix him; he’s not broken. He’s still strong, and perfect, and the best thing in my entire world. He’s the biggest, brightest thing in my entire life.

Sometimes I wonder how I manage to fit this immeasurable, uncontainable universe in my arms.

  
****

 

My baby brother is the first child born into the world of Mages who will never have experienced the fear of the Humdrum.

I actually didn’t believe it when Daphne told me. Snow and I killed off the Humdrum last summer. That was practically an entire lifetime ago. Dozens of magical babies had to have been born during that time.

But no. Just one.

Magnus Aurelius Grimm.

It’s a testament to how fucking depressing things have been around here that I didn’t make any comment about how his name sounds like a mix between a dead Roman and a condom brand.

I should be more excited about my brother. He’s cute, in the generic way that all babies are. He’s not as cute as Mordelia was, but he’s a bit more pleasant looking than the twins were.

There’s been much exclamation over a new boy in the family. One who will presumably not be gay and will live to carry on the Grimm legacy. Malcolm is beside himself with happiness. He keeps talking about “his boys”.  And everyone keeps asking me what I’m going to teach my little brother.

I don’t really know. It feels a little weird, to be honest. I should be excited and thrilled and full of love for this small human who shares my DNA and who is going to get to grow up in a world with no dead spots or Humdrum or power struggles.

But everything is still a bit numb, and a bit raw, and it’s hard to make the happiness come. It’s hard being a happy on a normal day; it’s impossible being happy when you know you have to be.

Part of it is Snow. Of course. He’s with the Wellbeloves for Christmas, and I’m with my family, celebrating the birth of the newest son. I just saw him, though, which makes things easier, and since he’s started coming to Watford for weekend visits, it makes the missing him a lot easier to handle. He’s getting better, slowly, day by day.

Niall is with Dev this year, and I know that I’ll see them tomorrow for Christmas dinner, but sometimes tomorrow seems like years away. Absolute years, during which I have nothing to do but sit and worry about Snow and think about my mother and watch the Mage die over and over and try to wonder why I don’t feel much of anything.

I’m not relieved. I’m not happy. I’m not sad. And I’m not scared.

I’m just… existing.

I think that for now, that’s okay.

Everyone has been understanding of it, at least. They’ve been ignoring my silences and looking the other way when I slip out of the house every night to sit at the edge of the garden and smoke. It’s a filthy habit, one i wish I had never picked up. Dev is absolutely revolted by it, but it’s steadying, in its own way. It makes me feel warm, even if just for a moment.

And it’s not like I can get lung cancer. I don’t think.

“Mummy says that Father Christmas won’t come if we aren’t all in bed,” says a small, breathy voice at my shoulder. I turn, surprised that one of my sisters was able to sneak up on me, only to see Ophelia, Acantha, and Mordelia lurking behind me.

“Father Christmas isn’t real,” Mordelia says, flopping into one of the black wrought iron garden chairs next to me.

“What?” Ophelia says, and I shoot Mordelia a glare. She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off.

“Father Christmas is real,” I tell the twins. “He doesn’t come to visit Mordelia anymore, though, since she’s been extremely naughty. But if you two don’t get to bed, he’ll skip our house.”

“You have to go to bed too,” Acantha says. Her voice is high and wispy, and she has blonde hair. I’ve no idea where it came from — no one on either side of the family has light hair, but there it is, in all its shocking glory. Sometimes she looks so light and delicate that I worry a stiff breeze will carry her away. “Mummy said Father Christmas will need to be extra nice to you this year.”

“Did she?” I ask, amused. I let out a huff of air and look my sisters over. None of them are dressed for the weather. Daphne is probably going mad trying to find out where they are. I have no idea why they staged a break out to come find me. “Come on little puffs, back inside.”

“Basil, are you crying?” Acantha asks suddenly. “Mummy says you come out here to be sad.”

Her question hits me like a sack of bricks.

“Basil doesn’t cry,” Mordelia says. “Boys don’t cry, numpty.”

“Mordy, don’t call her that,” I correct immediately. “And some boys do cry, and that’s fine. But I’m not crying.”

“If you’re sad, you can cry,” Ophelia whispers, and Acantha nods. The two of them are impossibly small, with huge eyes. “We won’t tell anyone.”

And then they launch themselves at me, small arms clasping for purchase as two small bodies pile on top of me. I stare at my little sisters, completely stunned.

The twins are sweet — too sweet, sometimes — but I’ve never connected with them the way I did with Mordelia. Mordelia, who is sitting in the wrought iron chair next to me, watching this scene unfold with curious, dark eyes. She looks so much like Dev sometimes that it’s uncanny. But she’s cooler than him; she’s currently wearing an overly large black tee that I have a sneaking suspicion came from my suitcase.

The twins will never be as punk as Mordelia, but that’s not their fault.

“Thank you,” I tell the twins, hugging them back. “But I’m okay. I’m not going to cry. I’m not sad.”

Acantha wriggles onto my lap in order to wrap her arms around my neck, and Ophelia does the same, struggling on small legs until I lean over and pick her up and place her there. It feels odd — it’s been years since Mordelia sat in my lap like this. They’re warm and squirming and smell like milk and peppermint.

“Well if you are sad, that’s fine,” Acantha says, huddling into my jacket.

“Yeah,” Ophelia adds. “Or not. That’s fine.”

“Thank you for the approval,” I drawl, laughing slightly as I look over at Mordelia and sigh heavily. “Come on, punk, get over here.”

Mordelia rockets out of her chair so fast that she hits me in a full tackle, and my own chair goes sliding backwards, tipping off balance until the twins and I are unceremoniously dumped into the grass. My three sisters scream and laugh and conspire to bury me under their collective weight, and I struggle for a moment before laying back and letting them.

“What did you ask for for Christmas?” Mordelia whispers. She’s angled herself squarely across my stomach, her little elbow poking into my spleen.

“Nothing,” I say honestly. “What should I have asked for?”

“A pink leather jacket,” she says immediately. “That’s what I want.”

“And you’re not going to get it unless you’re in bed,” comes a low, amused voice from behind us. All three girls and I tilt our heads up to see Fiona, a dark shadow backlit by the lights of the house. “Come on girls, leave your brother be and get to bed.”

“We’re staying out here,” Mordelia announces. “We’re going to stay with Baz until he cries like a boy.”

“We’re making Baz cry, eh?” Fiona asks with a smirk. The eyebrow with the piercing goes up. “Count me in then. Budge up.”

In two long strides, Fiona reaches us and throws herself to the ground next to me. Mordelia shifts her allegiance and crawls on top of Fiona’s gut, and Acantha takes the opportunity to squeeze herself against my chest.

Really, her breath reeks of peppermint. She must have eaten a bucket of candy canes.

“ ** _Nice and toasty_** ,” Fiona casts, and a small bubble of warmth surrounds us. I give her a thankful smile, and Ophelia sighs happily.

“So what, are we just sitting here staring at the sky?” Fiona asks. “This is pretty fuc— dang boring.”

“Tell us one of your stories, Fi,” Mordelia says, violently rearranging herself in Fiona’s arms. Fiona hisses in pain.

“A princess story!” Acantha shouts in my ear.

“Uh,” Fiona says, pausing for a moment. “Alright. Once upon a time there was a prince named Sid. And he was known for being… vicious.”

“Fiona,” I warn.

“Was he handsome?” Ophelia asks. Fiona makes a face.

“Uh. Yeah. In the right lights. Brilliant musician. Crazier than a bag of cats.”

“Where’s the princess?” Acantha asks.

“Sid’s princess was a girl named Nancy. And if you think _Sid_ was crazy, Nancy was worse. Sid and Nancy had all kinds of adventures and had all kinds of battles with... rival… bands.”

“Fiona,” I say again.

“Were they happy?” Ophelia asks.

“Uh,” Fiona responds, clearly regretting every action that ever brought her to this moment in her life. “I think they were as happy as they could be, together.”

“Fi.”

“Well that’s fine,” Mordelia says, adjusting herself again. Fiona lets out a loud grunt. “They did their best.”

“Mummy says everything is fine if you do your best,” Ophelia says sleepily.

“Well that’s very egalitarian of her,” Fiona mumbles. I aim out a quick kick.

“What happened to Sid and Nancy?” Mordelia asks, covering a yawn. I’m fighting one myself — the warming charm Fiona cast over us has encased us in a warm, safe bubble, and I’m getting a bit sleepy.

“I’ll play you the album,” Fiona responds, waving her hand dismissively. “Tomorrow. Only if you fall asleep and let Santa come.”

“I think the twins are already there,” I whisper, not wanting to speak loudly in case I wake the two puffing lumps on my chest. How do kids fall asleep so fucking fast? I wish I had that skill.

The five of us lay there for who knows how long, staring up at the Christmas eve sky, watching as it gets darker and darker, encased in our pocket of warmth and peppermint at the bottom of the garden. I don’t know if Mordelia is asleep or just going with the moment, but Fiona isn’t talking either. I’m surprised she’s staying out there. She and Mordelia get on, but she’s relatively removed from the twins. She’s not really big on kids, all things considered.

She only really does these things for me.

“Hey Fi,” I whisper after what feels like ages. She grunts from beside me, and I know she’s still awake. I swallow. My throat feels dry, and my voice is hoarse. “Remember — remember before Mordelia was born, the night of the wedding? When I just went into your room and told you what I had overheard, and you didn’t… you didn’t ask questions or argue. You just got up and did what I asked and took me on a wild, crazy road trip.” She’s silent, and I swallow again. “That summer, in Dublin with you and Niall… that was one of the best summers of my life. And you had my back.”

“Christ Baz, I’m not a saint,” Fiona responds. But her voice cracks a bit. “I managed to piss you off enough to run away from me the next summer, so clearly it didn’t mean that much.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “No, it did. I didn’t dwell on it at the time, but. Thanks. Thanks for raising me. I’m so glad you took me away that night, and that first Christmas. I don’t know who I’d be or what I’d do if I hadn’t been your kid.”

Fiona is silent for a long, long time.

“Jesus Christ and Crowley on a raft, kid, are you trying to make me cry?” she says finally. And there’s a distinct sniffing noise. “What, are you high or something?”

“No,” I respond, smiling slightly. “Are you offering?”

Fiona’s watery chuckle echoes out into the night.

“Maybe when we’re not around the adults, eh?”

I smile, and then slowly sit up. The girls shift and latch onto me, and I wrap one arm around each lump as I carefully get to my feet. It’s long past time they got to bed.

“I’m serious, Fi. My life was never meant to be happy, I don’t think. But you helped me do my best.”

Fiona is still on the ground at my feet, my little sister’s arms wrapped in a death grip around her neck.

“Are you happy?” she asks. I shrug, and the twins’ sleeping forms shrug with me. Acantha snuggles further into my shoulder, and Ophelia tightens the fist clenching my jumper.

“I dunno. But I’m trying my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS REFERENCED IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
> All We Ever Wanted Is Everything -- Bauhaus
> 
> Anarchy In The U.K. -- The Sex Pistols
> 
> Atmosphere -- Joy Division
> 
> Blitzkrieg Bop -- The Ramones
> 
> Another Brick In The Wall -- Pink Floyd
> 
> Under Pressure -- Queen
> 
> I'm So Tired -- Fugazi


	15. Don't Stop Me Now  | PART 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEAR EIGHT, PART 2: Another grand theft auto, a sentimental serenade, and shocking character growth. Natasha Pitch has atrocious music taste, but no one really minds. Coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing honestly just not that great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of this fic as we know it, and I feel fiiinnneeeeeee

David Bowie is dead.

He died nine days after I came back to Watford, two days after he released a new album, and four months after the Mage.

In an odd, nonsensical way, it makes sense. Snow’s and my mentors are dead, and now we’re adults. We’re both on our own now.

Snow came up on the train, even though he wasn’t scheduled to visit, and brought Bunce and Wellbelove. They showed up at the door of my room in Mummers, holding tea and whiskey and Walkers.

“Thought you might want some company,” Snow said, smiling crookedly at me, and I nearly fucking melted. It had never occurred to me that he’d come. It had never occurred to me that I’d need him until he was there.

Dev and Niall showed up not ten minutes later with chocolate and bacon butties they nicked from the kitchen, which made gathering in my room extremely difficult due to lack of space, so we bundled up our supplies and made our way across campus in a solemn funeral procession, Snow leading the way with my record player clutched to his chest, Dev, Niall and I following behind with a stack of albums each, Wellbelove and Bunce in the rear with the food.

The nursery let us in, just like always.

Bunce is the one who starts up the music, picking through records before she puts on _Hunky Dory_. Excellent choice.

“He was weird as fuck, but he wrote some catchy shit,” Dev mumbles from his sprawled position at Niall’s side. Niall has spelled his eyes different colours again for the occasion. I hope they don’t get stuck like last time. His eyes were an odd muddy blue for years. They’ve only just gone back.

“Whenever I had to focus on magic, I thought of _Space Oddity_ ,” Snow says suddenly. “When we — when we killed the Humdrum. It was stuck in my head.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I had Talking Heads stuck in my head. _Psycho Killer_.”

“That was stuck in my head when we left Wales,” Dev admits quietly, and we lapse back into silence.

“Have you see what people have been saying, though?” Wellbelove whispers, looking around. “Apparently there were accusations against him for sexual assault from the 70s.”

“What?” Snow asks, stiffening. He looks between Wellbelove and me. “Baz, did you know this?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Yeah, I’d heard something about that.”

“Fuck,” Snow says, letting out a low breath. His brow furrows, and his fist curls deeper into the baby blue carpet. “Fuck. Is no one — why is no one who you thought they were?”  I know he’s not talking about Bowie right now, know he’s not thinking about Bowie as he closes his eyes. “Is it just like… everyone you love has to do something fucking awful that makes them unloveable? That makes it so you’re not allowed to…” he trails off and turns bright pink, his eyes opening and making contact with mine.

“You can love people who did bad things,” I say quietly. “You can look at their facts and know it’s wrong, but you can’t force your heart into being logical.” I’ve been thinking a lot about this today. And not just today. Not just in regard to Bowie. I know this has been eating at Snow. “When someone finds a spot in your heart, it’s not weak to be unable to cut them out.”

The air between Snow and me is crackling with tension and energy, and no one speaks. Everyone knows we’re not talking about Bowie.

“Hear hear,” Niall says, raising his tea cup that is more whiskey than tea. “And anyway, it’s hard to be objective when he comes to dead people.” He pauses, then stares down at his cup. “In hindsight, I think my gran, God bless her, might have had a problem with the drink.”

Everyone watches him.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m fairly sure my mother was speciest.”

Niall snorts into his tea, and Dev grins and raises his own mug.

“To Natasha Grimm Pitch and Moira Kelly; may we honour both their memories and their questionable decisions.”

A low chuckle makes its way around the circle of my friends, and everyone raises their tea cup. Snow and I are the only ones without liquor in ours.

“Cheers to the glorious dead!” I say with a sad smile. “To David Bowie: the complicated, courageous, crazy fuck who made me gay.” Bunce snorts, Wellbelove sighs, and Snow smiles lightly as he takes a sip. But his brow is furrowed. His eyes are focused on something not in this room. Bunce puts a hand on his knee.

“And to David Llewelyn,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper. She pauses to clear her throat, and everyone has gone rigid. Snow is staring at her, his mouth slightly open. “He was an awful person and a terrible teacher and I’ll hate him till I die. But he gave us Simon.”

“Cheers to that,” I agree fiercely, raising my floral teacup.

“Cheers,” Wellbelove adds softly.

“Aye, cheers to that, mate,” Dev says, and Niall nods as well.

Snow looks on the verge of tears, but everyone deliberately drinks their tea at once and pretends not to notice. Bunce squeezes his knee once and then lets go.

“Alright, none of this album bullshit. I’m taking over and taking requests,” Dev announces, cutting through the tension as he clambers to his feet and heads for the record player.

Snow lays back on the ground, his head resting on my thigh, and I allow my hand to drop into his hair, my fingers twisting around one bronze curl.

“Put on _Rebel Rebel_ ,” Snow says from my lap, smiling lazily up at me. “I’ve always thought it’s a Baz song.”

I flick his ear gently and smile back at him as the guitar riff kicks in. Everyone sings along, Snow included, his eyes closed as he follows the lyrics. I’m surprised by how well he knows the words, and I watch him shamelessly. He won’t catch me looking soft; his eyes are closed.

But when we hit the bridge, he opens them and gazes up at me, staring into my eyes with a cheeky grin as he sings.

_“Hot tramp, I love you so.”_

 

****

 

“The water for the coffee is almost ready, go ahead and sit down.”

“I don’t like coffee,” I respond, glancing around at Professor Hollow’s cramped sitting room. I always wonder how he manages to exist in here. He has books stacked everywhere, on every surface. Books function as his coffee table and light stand. The large, overstuffed leather chair I usually sit in is currently inhabited by a pile of tangled jumpers and loose papers, and his only other chair is full of records.

“I can clean this for you in less than five minutes,” I shout into the other room, gingerly picking several soft jumpers out of my chair.

“What?” Hollow asks, popping around the corner. “Oh, sorry. Just throw that anywhere, I don’t care.”

Permission granted, I sweep the contents of my chair to the ground and take a seat.

“Why did you empty your entire vinyl collection?” I ask, accepting a chipped Oxford mug from him. It’s the same mug I always use, even though I hate the chip. I think it’s his not-so-subtle way of reminding me that my applications are due extremely soon.

He won’t just come out and say it, though. Which I appreciate. Like a lot of the professors, Hollow has largely given up on treating me like a student. But unlike the other professors, he’s started treating me like a friend.

I find myself here a lot, these days. Without some grand adventure or crisis or feud with Snow to fill my time, it turns out there’s not a lot to do at Watford if you’re caught up on your homework. Sometimes Hollow lets me help him grade his younger students’ work. Sometimes we sit and talk or argue. Sometimes we just listen to music and stare off into space and think our separate thoughts.

But not today. I’ve come here with a mission.

“I’ve got too many records,” he responds with a shrug, settling himself on the arm of the other leather chair. “I thought I’d let you see if you wanted any of them. Call it a leavers present.”

“I’ve got several months to go,” I respond dryly. “I could still turn truant and drop out.”

“Aye, keep telling yourself that,” he responds with a small smile, tugging a hand through his sandy hair and disrupting his glasses in the process. “You’re welcome to any of them except the Depeche Mode. Fiona gave that to me when we left, actually.”

He stops, awkward, and glances out the window.

I take a sip of my coffee and inwardly curse him for putting in the exact amount of milk and sugar to make it palatable.

He really is the perfect man, damn him.

“I never apologised for Fiona breaking up with you,” I say suddenly, breaking the silence. Hollow’s eyes flick to me and go wide. “It was because of me.”

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “No, don’t think that.”

“I don’t think that, I know that,” I argue. Hollow shrugs. He looks like Simon when he does that.

“It’s fine, really. It’s not like we were some great love story. We never were.” He laughs and adjusts his round glasses. “Even in school, we were friends, but she only had eyes for—” he stops and trails off. I can fill in the gaps. Only had eyes for Nico.

“Did you ever do the Polecat Pronouncements?”

“What?” he asks, confused by my change of subject. “No.” He folds his leg up to rest his ankle on the opposite knee, and balances his mug on top of his leg. “No, we were always in detention. I always kind of wanted to see one of the polecats, though.”

I hum and take another sip of my coffee. It’s good. Really good. The pretentious asshole probably has it shipped in from some gourmet fair trade place.

“Snow and I stole one, you know. He still functions and everything. His name is Merlin.”

“You’re the one who took the polecat?” Hollow bursts out. “Crowley, the staff were convinced he ran away.”

“Nope. He’s living happily with the Wellbeloves now, but he was with Fiona and me over the summer. He and Fiona fought all the time.” I take another sip of my coffee. “You know, I heard your name shouted by that little shit a lot this summer.”

The amused expression drops off of Hollow’s face, and he leans forward. His overly round glasses slide down his crooked nose. I wonder if he broke it when he was younger.

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Because I like you,” I tell him. I drain the last of my coffee and lean over to place the empty mug on a teetering pile of Shakespeare plays. “And I love my aunt. And I’m apparently an emotional, sentimental fuck who just wants the people I care about to be happy.”

“And why is that?”

I laugh, a sharp, surprised thing that bursts out of me.

“Because everyone I know is so fucking miserable, and I’m so fucking sick of it. None of us are going to get over our shit if we refuse to be happy.”

I stand up and straighten my trousers, but Hollow stays seated, his eyes glued to me, a confused, thoughtful look on his face.

“You know Baz,” he says slowly, “some would call this character growth.”  
I pull a face.

“I know, don’t remind me.” I gesture to the pile of vinyls on the chair. “By the way, hang on to that top record for me. I know someone who would like it.”  
Hollow gives me a half-formed, crooked smile, and then laughs into his mug. Amusement and happiness are starting to creep in across his features, and I turn my back and let myself out of his office before I have to handle the full power of one of his fully formed grins.

 

***

 

“I just don’t like it, that’s all I’m saying. It’s weird.”

Snow and I glance at each other over Dev’s head. It’s the third time Dev has said this, and we get the message. Neither of us wants to be cruel and tell him that we’ve been over it and that we don’t care anymore. And neither of us wants to tell him that Snow has to leave that evening and we’d really prefer to have the room.

Because Dev is apparently in crisis.

“I mean, the plan was that the three of us were going to go to Oxford,” he says, picking at a piece of paper that he’s been shredding over and over. It’s his acceptance letter to King’s College.

“Right,” I say slowly, sighing and putting my book aside. “But it’s not Niall’s fault that didn’t pan out. You’re the one who didn’t get into Oxford.”

Dev glares at me.

“Thanks for that,” he mumbles. “But you and I are both going to be in London, since you decided to not go to Oxford and stick with him.” He juts his chin out toward Snow.

“I didn’t decide against Oxford because of Snow—” I start to protest (even though it’s completely correct — I wouldn’t have even applied to the London School of Economics if he and Bunce weren’t going to City, University of London) but Snow cuts me off.

“Wait, so you’re pissed that Niall is going to Oxford without you?”

“No!” Dev says, shaking his head. “I mean. A bit. But no. I’m thrilled for him. Had no fucking idea he wanted to study demonic fucking possession, but like, three mages a year get accepted into Circe College. Of course he has to go.”

“So what is the issue?” I snap. I’m in a good mood today and Snow has been particularly and surprisingly cheerful, and as awful as it sounds, I don’t really want Dev’s bad temper bringing us down.

“I guess I just assumed Niall and I would always be together,” he mumbles. Snow meets my eyes again and his eyebrows go up and he looks like he’s trying not to grin. I glare back.

“You’ll be close. It’s an hour by train.” I roll my eyes. “Honestly, in London rush hour it might take Snow and me that same time to get to each other.”

Snow smiles wider and puts down the packet of crisps he’s been destroying.

Despite my glares, I am actually excited about this situation. He’ll be sharing a flat with Bunce, and I’m going to continue to live with Fiona, but I know he and Bunce are planning to look for somewhere in Camden. Near me.

“It won’t be the same!” Dev protests, wadding up his acceptance letter and throwing it out the open window and into the moat. “We’ve shared a room for eight years and now I’ll have to like, text and plan if I want to see him or do something.”

“You could try this thing called making friends. Get a girlfriend. Live your life without a ten foot tall Irishman looming over you and judging you for not being nice.”

Dev tucks his chin onto his knees and mumbles something.

“What was that?”

He sighs heavily.

“I said I don’t want friends and I don’t want a girlfriend. I have friends. And Niall is like… the only person I ever want to be around. I found one person, why do I have to find more?”

Snow looks ready to do a fucking dance, and I have absolutely no idea what to say. I’ve never heard Dev express this much emotion or feeling before and nothing has prepared me for how to respond without being an asshole.

“You should tell him that,” Snow says suddenly. Dev jerks his head up to stare at him, his dark eyes wide in alarm.

“What?”

“You should tell him how you feel,” Snow repeats. Dev, to my utmost astonishment, blushes. He stares at Snow in silence for a moment.

“I don’t know if that would go well,” he says, his voice quiet.

I am, for lack of a better word, gobsmacked. I cannot believe. I cannot believe this. And I cannot believe Snow was fucking right.

“I’m sorry, what?” I sputter. Dev turns to look at me and blushes more. “When did you realise you were gay? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dev tries to shrug casually, but absolutely fails, as he has all the casualness of a person contemplating chucking himself out the window. (At least it’s safe now. Headmistress Bunce got rid of the merwolves.)

“I don’t think I am.”

“Oi, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Snow interjects quickly. “You don’t have to know what you are for sure.”

“No,” Dev says, shaking his head. “I mean… I don’t know. I don’t think of people… like that. Like. Anyone. Well…” he trails off and turns pink. “I mean. Most people.”

“But….” Snow prompts.

Dev squares his jaw and turns away from us to look out the window.

“Like I said, Niall is like… the only person I want to be around. Who I could imagine it being like… okay with.” He clears his throat and straightens up. “And he’s so bloody nice he’d be understanding of literally anything. Right?”

“You have to tell him,” I say. I almost want to laugh. I’m no longer the token queer cousin.

Amazing.

“He’s got Craig Stainton, and it would be weird, right? He’s like my brother.”

“You have to tell him,” I respond. “Seriously, I promise you, he does not think of you like a brother.”

“I’m pretty positive they broke up. Also Craig Stainton is kind of a prick, isn’t he?” Snow adds in. Dev beams.

“Couldn’t put it better myself, Snow,” he says. Then slumps again. “How the fuck do I go about telling him?” he asks, frowning. “You two only got up the nerve because something tried to kill you.” He bites his lip then looks up at me beseechingly. “How did you and Niall get together?”

“I fucking _knew it_!” Snow explodes. I cringe.

“Niall and I weren’t together,” I say carefully.

“That’s not what Niall said,” Dev shoots back, and I glower. Snow doesn’t look angry, but he does look suspicious. He and Fiona have eerily similar suspicious faces. Like a dog after a squirrel.

“Niall and I had a very short-lived teenage fling, wherein we both acknowledged we didn’t have feelings for each other, and only sought each other out because we were depressed and hung up on other people,” I snap back. Snow’s face falls, and he backs down a little. I’m almost disappointed to see it — whenever he shows big bursts of emotion lately, it’s like taking a breath of fresh air. “So no, we weren’t together. Just tell him. Say you’ll miss him.”

“I can’t just…” Dev makes a vague motion in the air. “Show up and spout off some emotional bullshit.”

“Do something nice for him,” Snow chirps in between bites of his crisps. “Something with music. He’s a nut for music, isn’t he?”

“He’s a nut for awful music,” Dev says darkly. “Do you know that I genuinely, truly hate _Mr. Brightside_ with a fucking passion? And he plays it all the fucking—”

He goes still, his dark eyes darting about the room in a classic move that I know as Dev’s thinking face, and then they fall on me.

“Baz,” he breathes. “What was that spell you used first year? The one from Fiona?”

Snow looks confused, but a small smile stretches across my face.

“Devlin,” I say slowly, standing and stretching out a crick in my back. “I think you’re on to an excellent idea.”

 

***

 

“Do you hear music?” Niall asks, looking up from his book.

“What?” Snow responds, his mouth full of scone. Tea is over in ten minutes, and Snow hasn’t showed signs of slowing down.

“Music,” Niall repeats, closing his school book slowly and craning his head toward the doors of the Great Hall. “Someone is playing music in the courtyard.”

“Why would they do that?” I hum into my tea. Snow looks up and grins at me. Crowley, I don’t want him to leave in an hour. I know we’re at the end of the school year, but every time I have to say goodbye to him I feel like my chest is going to compress in on itself and suffocate me.

“That’s — someone is playing the Killers on the Lawn,” Niall says, scrambling to get up from the bench and nearly toppling my tea in the process. Because this is such a big moment, I won’t yell at him for it. “Come on, I’ve got to see this.”

Niall isn’t the only one to have noticed. Other students have perked their heads up as well, and as Snow and I follow him to the main doors, a small stream of students have begun milling out of the Great Hall to investigate the noise.

When Niall throws open the Great Hall doors and steps out into the courtyard, we’re assaulted with a wall of sound.

“ _It started out as a kiss, how did it end up like this?_ ” sings the largest gargoyle. “ _It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss._ ”

“Holy shit,” Niall breathes, his freckled face breaking into a wide grin as he turns in a circle, taking in the six massive gargoyles who are serenading him with _Mr. Brightside_.

“ _Jealousy! Turning saints into the sea!”_

Niall laughs in delight and sings along breathlessly, even as other students mill out of the doors and look around in confusion. Some begin singing as well, others start dancing. Several eighth years laugh in amusement and recognition, remembering the time this happened in our first year.

I should teach some underclassmen this spell before we leave. Just so this tradition doesn’t die out with the Pitches.

There’s a warmth at my side and then Snow knocks into my shoulder. He’s grinning, his hands cupped around his mouth as he shout sings.

“ _But it’s just the price I pay! Destiny is calling me!_ ”

I roll my eyes and try to fight off the urge to wrap him in my arms. He seems to know I’m struggling, because he moves closer and hooks his chin over my shoulder, so close that he can talk into my ear. His bronze curls brush my cheek, and he’s so warm. My Simon. So alive.

“I never knew that was you. First year, with the gargoyles.”

I turn my head to give him a sharp smile.

“You really should have known. I literally told you it was going to happen.”

He grins and smiles up at me, and the happiness on his face makes me melt.

“I should have, you’re right.” He shrugs, and I feel the movement through my whole body. “You know… everything that year was so overwhelming and so awful. I found out I had magic, loads of it, and then I couldn’t fucking do any of it. I was scared shitless and scared of magic. And then the gargoyles happened and it was just so… nice.” He shrugs again and looks down at the ground, suddenly serious. “It was the first time I really loved magic. I’d forgotten about that, you know. I’d forgotten that sometimes I really love magic.”

“I love you,” I tell him. It slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. But I don’t want to stop it. I’ve been saying it — we both have — in small, round about ways for months. Neither of us will just say it because we’re too full of ourselves and too concerned with appearances and too fucking stubborn.

But what does any of that matter anymore? I love him. Who fucking cares.

His eyes scrunch up and he taps his head against mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“I know. I love you too.”

“Baz, did you do this?” Niall shouts, turning to us. He’s beaming. Practically glowing.

“Nope. He did.” I gesture toward Dev. He’s standing under the largest gargoyle, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes watching us. Niall smiles helplessly at him, and I know Dev’s plan has worked.

When the song ends the courtyard bursts into applause and cheers, and Dev pushes off from the wall. People turn to watch as he strides to the centre of the courtyard, stops, and clears his throat.

“Niall Kelly!” he shouts. Everyone falls silent. Niall is completely still beside me, unable to look away from my cousin.

Admittedly, I have no idea what’s about to happen, and I’m suddenly extremely nervous. Dev is not a great public speaker.

“Does he have a plan?” Snow whispers in my ear.

“I don’t think so,” I respond.

“Ah. Yikes.”

Dev is staring at the ground, his hands still in his pockets. He’s waiting. He’s dragging this out. He’s losing his confidence. Merlin help us.

But then he looks up, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

“I’m sorry we’re not going to Oxford together,” he says. His voice is tight, and a little sad, but heartbreakingly earnest. “And I’m sorry I’m such a grumpy sod. And I’m sorry I’ve got such shit music taste. But mostly I’m sorry that I’ve never told you that…” Dev trails off and my heart clenches. I want to look away. This feels too intimate to be watching. “I’m sorry I’ve never told you that you’re my best friend.”

Niall beams. His ears are a bright red and there’s a pink flush creeping up his neck, but he looks extremely confused. I don’t blame him. I can’t tell is Dev is done or not. I really hope he doesn’t leave it there.

He clears his throat again, deliberately does not look at the entire crowd of students watching, and pushes on.

“In... in the fourth year, you once told me that I saved you. But… I think you had it wrong. I think it was the other way round.” I can hear Niall take a sharp inhale of breath, just as Dev lets out a long, shakey one. One hand comes out of his pocket to run unevenly through his dark hair. “Niall, you’re the only person in my life who makes sense and I’m kind of kind of completely mad about you.”

Students gasp. Trixie, who is standing on the other side of the courtyard, lets out an absolute shriek, and Keris has to drag her backwards. Niall doesn’t say anything.

He and Dev lock eyes, and then Dev raises his wand.

**_“Anyway… here’s Wonderwall.”_ **

The spell activates the gargoyles and the first few strains of _Wonderwall_ start up. But Niall still just stands there, frozen. Completely dazed and frozen. Dev won’t break eye contact and just keeps smiling. He looks scared out of his mind, but he won’t look away.

_Today is gonna be the day_

_That they're gonna throw it back to you_

I want to push Niall.

_By now you should've somehow_

_Realized what you gotta do_

He’s still not moving. Come on Niall. You great fucking idiot. Move.

_I don't believe that anybody_

_Feels the way I do, about you now_

Dev’s hopeful expression waivers, and his eyes drop to the stone. I can see the moment he gives up and his shoulders hunch. And that’s the moment Niall breaks.

He crosses the courtyard in four long strides, wraps his arms around Dev’s waist, and kisses him.

The crowd of students explodes in cat calls and cheers and laughter, and Niall and Dev break away. Niall is grinning widely, and Dev looks honestly a bit overwhelmed, but he has a dazed smile on his face as well. Dev ducks his head and says something quietly, and Niall laughs, the jittery sound of it echoing off the stone, and they slip out down one of the hallways.

It’s about fucking time.

 _Wonderwall_ is still playing, and a group of fourth year girls next to us are screaming it at each other at the top of their lungs.

“Well that was properly fucking romantic,” Snow says. He’s smiling too. Everyone around us is smiling and I’m so fucking relieved, because this place has been too fucking depressing for too fucking long.

“You should know,” I tell him, reaching down to take his hand in mine. “Grimms are notorious for being sentimental bastards.”

 

***

 

When I walk out of the Great Hall after my leavers ceremony, Fiona is sitting on the bonnet of her MG, waiting for me.

“You were late.”

She snuck into the back of the White Chapel just as I was walking up to the front to give my speech. With Bunce gone, I was the clear top of the class, so I got to get up there and blether a bit and feel self important. Five minutes more and my aunt would have missed it.

“I wasn’t late, I was fashionably on time,” she retorts, patting the bonnet. I clamber up next to her. It’s easier than it was when I was eleven. I suppose it’s all the extra leg I’ve developed.

“You cried.”

She doesn’t have a retort for that one. She knows there’s no way around it. She was as weepy as Magnus.

I don’t blame her. It was a good speech.

With everything that happened, I hadn’t given much thought to what I’d say. A Leavers ceremony seems a bit anticlimactic when you’ve killed off the Humdrum, exposed a killer, rooted out corruption and managed to bring a peace between the two warring factions of the Magickal World.

I didn’t put a whole lot of effort into planning, but I didn’t need to. My mum gave the speech at her leavers ceremony as well. I’d looked up the speech years ago, when I found out.

That was a good speech too.

She’d made a list of everything she loved most at Watford, everything she loved about magick, and everything the school had meant to her. It was exactly what I’d imagined when I was eleven and approaching the gates for the first time as a student. It was all the whimsy and wonder and expectation of what my eight years at Watford should have been.

So I talked about that.

I talked about the Watford my mother loved, and the Watford I love. The Watford where I learned to make gargoyles sing and where magical boys fell from the sky. The Watford where my professors became my friends, where my friends became my family, where my family solidified as the most important thing in my life. The Watford where I learned, finally, that I can belong. The Watford where I fell in love.

I didn’t mention that last part. The only person I’d want to hear it is Snow, and he didn’t come, on my request. He’s comfortable in his position as a drop out, but even still. It seemed a stretch too far to expect him to come watch us say goodbye without him.

I’ll see him tomorrow, anyway. We’re going for chips when I get back to London.

“Come on then,” Fiona says, climbing off the MG. “Get in, we’re going to Chelsea. Your father has left the grounds and I am officially clear to get you thoroughly sozzled. Top shelf only.”

“Can’t,” I say. “Leavers ball tonight. I’ve promised a pixie a dance and I don’t enjoy the idea of what happens if I back out.”

Fiona snorts.

“Suit yourself then, boyo. I may go find Charlie, if you’re staying.”

“Actually,” I say, mustering my courage. I’ve been planning this for a bit, and I refuse to baulk now. “I have something I need to do. And I thought you might want to come with me.”

 

***

 

Fiona is uncharacteristically silent as we wind through the dusty corridors of the catacombs, making our way to Le Tombeau des Enfants. She glances at the rats scurrying past, and occasionally sends a flame out to light our way, but she lets me go first, past the bust of a man I’m distantly related to, right at the curved stairway to nowhere, and then finally into the room of skulls, where my mother has her final resting place.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” I explain in soft tones. “I used to come here a lot, but I stopped, because I made a promise and didn’t want to come back until I fulfilled it. And then…” I trail off. Fiona gives me space to collect my thoughts. “I worried that when I left here, I wouldn’t be close to her anymore.”

“That’s not true,” Fiona says, her voice cracking. “We’ve always got her. Nat’s not down here, kid. She’s with us.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve realised that. Still. I wanted to say goodbye.” I slide my rucksack to the ground. “And I wanted to do it with the only person who loves her as much as I do.”

I carefully pull out the case containing my record player and the album I got from Hollow, and gently set it up.

Fiona chokes when she sees the record.

“She loved George Michael!” she says with a watery laugh. “How did you know?”

“She mentioned Wham! in her Leavers speech,” I respond, dropping the needle on the exact point I need it.

“She had awful music taste,” Fiona blubbers, and I nod emphatically.

“The absolute worst.”

The music starts up, and Fiona clears her throat.

“Don’t ever tell anyone, but I actually love this song.”

“Me too,” I whisper with a small smile, and then we fall quiet.

We sit there in the dark, on the stone floor of Le Tombeau des Enfants, and listen to _Freedom ‘90_ and silently say our goodbyes.

I thought about giving a speech, or reading mine to her, but it seems unnecessary. I’m sure she heard it earlier today. And I don’t really know a better way to tell her everything I need to about me — who I am, what I want, where I’m going — than through music.

When the song ends, I pick up the record and set it carefully on her tomb. Fiona conjures a bouquet of winter roses and sets them on the smooth marble. And then I pack up my record player, and Fiona make our way silently back out of the catacombs and up into the bright, mid-afternoon sun spilling out on the Lawn.

 

***

 

Simon Snow looks stunning in a grey suit.

He catches me completely by surprise while I’m by the punch table, discussing Latin declensions with Headmistress Bunce. But there he is, standing in between Dev and Niall as the three of them hike down the hill, the setting sun at their backs. Dev and Niall were clearly in on this; Niall pressured me into wearing a grey tie.

“What, no tuxedo trackies?” I ask when they get level with me. Snow doesn’t even blush, just beams back at me.

“I heard you gave a great speech,” he says instead. “Good job.”

“Of course I gave a great speech,” I retort. I’m delighted to see him here. Nearly giddy with it. “I’m me.”

“Is that alcoholic?” Dev asks, pointing to the punch. I shake my head. Headmistress Bunce has been guarding it all night. There’s no way someone spiked it.

“Oh,” Dev says, deflating. He hits Niall on the arm gently. “Want to get out of here?”

“Please,” Niall replies, scooping four brownies off the plate next to me before turning to go.

“You just got here!” I protest. Dev flips me off without looking back, and I roll my eyes and then turn to my boyfriend. My delightful, gorgeous, smiling and supportive boyfriend, who is looking awkward and out of place and extremely uncomfortable in his beautifully fitted suit.

Thank Merlin the Wellbeloves are dressing him. This screams Agatha.

“Want to dance?”

The speakers all around the courtyard have switched suddenly from the upbeat pop hits of the 2000s that have been going all night, and the first melancholic chords of a Nick Cave song are drifting through them. _Into My Arms_.

It’s one of my favourites.

I don’t see Fiona or Hollow around, which largely confirms my suspicion that this was them. Of course they were in on this as well. Bastards.

“I can’t dance,” Snow says. I hold out my hand.

“Of course you can’t. I’ll show you.”

He takes it with a huff and I drag him in close, marvelling at the warmth and smell of him. Even after everything, even after he blew out his excess power, he’s still a bundle of heat. His hair still smells like burning autumn leaves. When I bury my face in his neck at night, I can still catch the slight traces of cinnamon from his cheap bar soap.

Even without the magic, he’s still feels and smells like my Simon.

“I meant to get you a graduation present, but I got distracted,” he says as I rotate us gently. “So, er, what do you want?”

Him. Always him.

“Honestly? This is enough,” I murmur into his curls. “Are you staying the night?”

He nods against my shoulder, and I hold him closer. There’s tension running through him; I can feel his muscles pulled taught, and I press my fingers against his lower back.

“What’s sending your mind into engine failure?” I ask gently. “What do _you_ want?”

“Oh, er, I was just thinking about… Wales.” My stomach tightens. Of course he was. Being back here is hard for him, I know. Especially today, the day he would have been leaving as a fully qualified mage, ready to take on the world and take his place.

“I mean, not that,” he adds quickly, as if sensing my thoughts. “I meant, the day we drove in, and that night at the bed and breakfast.” He goes slightly pink, and I do too. “I was just… wishing we could go back.”

“You want to go back to Wales?”

“No!” he says. “No, I meant. I just wish sometimes we could be like that. Happy. You know? Before everything happened and things were fine. And we’re fine, don’t get me wrong, and I’m trying to be happy and get there but….” He huffs. “I just kind of want to step away for a minute, if I could. From the things I have to do.”

I squeeze him to me tighter, my arm like a steel vice around his waist. I want it too. I want it so badly.

“What is it you have to do? Because I give you permission not to do any of it.”

We spin in silence as Snow grapples with something.

“Oliver Salisbury sent me his wand,” he says suddenly. I inhale sharply. In the deepest, most secret part of my heart, I’ve wished Simon would get a new wand. I’ve hoped that he’d come back to magic. “He’s... apparently he’s a dud. No magic. He sent me the wand that was meant to be his and said to keep it, no pressures to come meet them.”

“But?” I prompt. Snow looks grim.

“I need to meet them. I have to talk to the Salisburys.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him sharply. His face relaxes.

“I want to.”

That’s it then. That’s all I needed to hear.

“It’ll be alright,” I start to say, but he interrupts.

“I want you to come with me. When I go.”

My heart melts for this fucking fool.

“Of course,” I say fiercely, spinning us into a tight circle as Nick Cave continues to croon. “Just say when and I’m there.”

“I was thinking tomorrow?” he asks with a weak and hesitant smile. He’s nervous. He’s clearly thought about this — as much as he thinks about anything — and I’m thrilled that he’s included me in it.

“What if we go in a few days instead?” I ask.

“What?”

“What if we go to talk to them, but we take a few days to get there?”

A slow smile starts to creep across his face. Hesitant, but curious and delighted. A look I’ve seen countless times on a younger Simon, just at the start of some new adventure.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s go,” I tell him, suddenly caught up in this idea, swept along by a whim for once in my life. “Let’s just drive and see where we end up and then when we’re done, we’ll go meet your family.”

“Can we do that?”

I fix him with a hard stare.

“Snow. It’s us. The Chosen One and the Pitch heir. The boys who defeated the Humdrum and the Mage. Who’s going to stop us?”

He closes his blue eyes and smiles.

 

***

 

We’ve packed up the remains of our room in Mummers House and are easing the MG out of the Watford gates before the Leavers Ball even ends. Fiona won’t notice the car missing till morning, and I’m sure I’ll have a fair share of nasty texts, but I don’t care.

“Where are we going?” Snow asks from the passenger. He’s changed out of his beautiful suit and back into trackies and a sweatshirt, and his blue eyes are wide and reflective in the pale moonlight. He looks comfortable and perfectly in his element, and the excitement in his eyes is infectious.

“I was thinking Scotland,” I respond. “My family has a lodge up there we never go to. Have you ever been?”

He shakes his head, and I shift the car into gear down the gravel drive.

“Excellent. They have midges and awful food, you’ll hate it.” I reach over and tap at his mobile, which sits cradled in his lap. “You’re on music.”

He grins suddenly, a huge smile breaking across his face as he reaches inside his hoodie pocket and pulls out a wand.

It’s old. Really old. Made soft, light wood with a comfortable handle carved at the base. It’s nowhere as stuffy as the wand the Mage gave him. This one is shorter, more rustic. It’s scuffed and worn in.

It suits him.

“Check this out,” he says, then turns his attention on the dash. “ ** _Two turntables and a microphone!_** ”

The music turns on with a crackle of static and magic, and the first few chords of a familiar song float out.

“Really?” I ask, gobsmacked at the ease with which Snow just cast a successful spell, but determined not to show it. “I open an entire world of music to you, and you choose “The The”? Honestly, Snow.”

He just smiles at me, his dimples on show, his cheeks pushed up into his eyes as _This Is The Day_ floods the car.

“Fuck off,” he says, and props his feet up on the dash. “I got it off your iPod.”

I watch him for a moment before turning back to the dark road.

“It’s not very punk.”

“You’re not very punk,” Snow retorts with a scoff. “Everything you listen to is New Wave.”

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” I ask, aghast. “How dare you, Snow. I don’t think—”

“Stop thinking,” Snow says, reaching over and wrapping his hand around mine. He smiles at me. Full, unencumbered. No sadness to be found. “Just drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGS REFERENCED IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
>  
> 
> Space Oddity -- David Bowie
> 
> Psycho Killer - The Talking Heads
> 
> Rebel Rebel -- David Bowie
> 
> Mr. Brightside -- The Killers
> 
> Wonderwall -- Oasis
> 
> Freedom '90 -- George Michael
> 
> Into My Arms -- Nick Cave
> 
> Where It's At -- Beck
> 
> This Is The Day -- The The

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [radio ga ga](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996695) by [messofthejess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess)
  * [funny how love is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471661) by [messofthejess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess)




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